^^^-sl^C't/: 



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Qyflfffrfie^ 




7/rrfore 




LIBRARY OF JCONGRESS. 

Cliap. Copyright No. 

Shelt'S:-^ .^ O 6 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



Songs 



5rom tJ?e IDmgs 



BY 

MINNIE GILMORE 

Author 0/ '■'■Pipes from Prairie-Land,'" "'A Son of Esau * 
** The Woman Who Stood Between^'^ Etc, 




F. Tennyson Neely, 
NEW YORK AND LONDON, 



TWO COPIES RECEiVED 




UrBn G? O^ 






Copyrighted, 1897. 

in the 

United States 

and 

Great Britain, 

by 

F. Tknntson Nekly. 

(All Eights Reserved.) 



(^ 



7 6 f 



CONTENTS 



DEDICATION. 

PROLOQUB : p^QB. 

I. PASSPORTS 19 

n. BOHEMIA 24 

in. THE PLAY OF LIFE 28 

IV. nature's MIRROR 81 

V. THE AMATEUR 35 

VI. AS THE PLAT BEGINS 87 

WITH BOHEMIA'S MANY : 

I. THE SINGER 43 

n. A PAINTER, TO HIS PICTURES 45 

m. THE WRITER 43 

IV. A BLUE-STOCKING'S ULTIMATUM 53 

V. THE ANGEL OP THE WINGS 56 

VI. THE ORCHESTRA 66 

Vn. MISUNDERSTOOD 69 

vni. l'ingenue 71 

IX. vox popuLi 75 

X. A COQUETTE OF THE BALLET 78 

XI. DEAD SEA FRUIT 81 

Xn. AMOR VINCIT 84 

XHL " WHEN ALL IS DONE " 86 

XIV. PRESENTIMENT.,.. 90 



Contents. 
WITH BOHEMIA'S MANY,— (Continued :) paqb, 

XV. THE GAUiBRY-BABY 93 

XVI. " PASSBB " 96 

XVII. OVER THE WINK AND WEED 98 

XVIII. ARRAIGNED 100 

XIX. THE DYING ACTOR ... 105 

XX. MADEMOISELLE SOUBRETTE 110 

XXI. THE OLD actor's FAREWELL 113 

xxn. art's moNY 118 

interludes : 

I. BETWEEN THE ACTS 121 

n. SERENADE 134 

in. RIVALS 136 

IV. STAGE-CHILDREN 133 

WITH BOHEJnA'S FEW : 

I. SANS80UCI 137 

II. THE DANCER 139 

TIL AN OLD COMEDY , 143 

IV. A FALLEN ANGEL 145 

V. A LIVING riCTURE 149 

VI. A STAGE MAGDALEN 153 

Vn. ROUGE ET NOIR 158 

IN THE AUDIENCE : 

I. STAR AND SATELLITE 165 

n. HOME-SICE , 168 

in. THE CHILD AT THE PLAY 173 

rV. SUNDERED 175 

V. grandma's FIRST PLAY 177 

VI. LOVE, — ON, AND OFF, THE STAGE 181 



Contents. 
m THE AUDIENCE,— (Continued :) page. 

Vn. "TH' RALE OULD IRISH play" 184 

VIII, TWO OF A KIND 189 

IX. THE STORY OF SARY 192 

EPrLOGUE : 

I. "I'll MEET YOU TO-NIGHT, BOYS*' 207 

II. THE actor's benefit 210 

ni. AFTER THE PLAY 213 

rV. AN EPITAPH. • 216 



X>^bication. 



Debtcation. 



TO MY FATHER. 

(P. S. G.) 

Mute flowers droop upon the grave — • 
The silent grave^ that beds his sleep / 

Where^ musing some celestial stave. 
Twin-angels^ vigil keep. 

His lute of Life^ no more shall sing, 

For Death has hushed its golden strain f 

But in my heart, its echoes ring 
Immortal Love's refrain. 



DeatKs saddest sting for Love, I hold, 
Is not that we lose all, to-day,-^ 

JBitt that we lost so much, of old, 
Ere Love was rent away, 

^Ifwe had only hnown,^^ we wail, 
" Had only known that we mustpart^' 

Our life had been of more avail, 
As prover of our heart f " 
(9) 



Co irty (Jattjer. 



And ij who share the common lot, ' 

Look back, Love, to silent days I 
And travail^ now Lhave you not, 

To speak my love and praise, j 

I 

Look hack to heedless years of Youth, \ 

To Youth the cruel, Youth the cold-^ \ 

And yearn to pour its squandered ruth '■ 

Within your heart of gold. 



We mortals are so blind, so blind — 
And Youth so light — so light and hardi 

Too late, too late, our sad lives find 
The chances Death has marred/ 



The Past is gone beyond our ken; 

Perchance the Future bides too late:' 
27ie Present is the hour for men 

To face and conquer Fate, 

Waste not in mourning^ that is warn, 
Nor yet in dreams, but vainer yet, 

heart, what precious hours remain 
Wherein to pay Lovers debt I 

Tho^ he is dead, I still mm^ do 

Eim honor, by a life akin 
To that pure life mychildhoodihuuff 

Hia father-heart wUhim 



Dcbtcatiott 



A life that trod Earth's higher way^ 
And scorned to serve the sordid Real; 

Revering^ in Man's human clay^ 
A God's divine ideal/ 

***** 
My prayer has panted night and day^ 

For week, and month, and lonely year^ 
That you anight speed me on the way 
Your child should follow he^-e: — 

That you, just once, might wander hackf 
To take me by the hand, and say^ 

" Such is the turning, such the track. 
Thai God has wilVd your way I " 

Love, I am fearful, as I gaze 
Before me, into years untried, — 

To choose between Life's open ways, 
If you be not my guide I 

Just one light touch, just one brief word, 
To me, too weak to walk unled, — 

Lovei skice Life has seen and heard 
The spirits of its dead, 

« * * * 4» 

1 wonder if the i&orld holds one, 

To smile at filial strain set here;—--- 
{Should^PMic Eyetere rest vpom 
This hve-aong ofymidean) 
(11) 



Co ma Satktt, 



If just one voice shall falsely say^ 

" Why^ he was common man^ no more. 

We meet his likeness every day 
The common sun shhies oer ! " 

Such^ knew you not — Ah^ Love I I think 
The world knows little^ men known best; 

For Mans diviner phases shrink 
Assertion manifest. 

And only Love, within the home. 

And Friendship's subtile sympathies^ 

Full face to face, shall ever comCy 
With what the real man is! 

We judge each other by the mash 
That hides the soul^ like sword in sheath. 

Ere judgment speaks, — Oh ! Let us ash 
What glory bides beneath I 



My vision is, when I pursue 

The rhythmic Muse, too great to spurn 
My lowly service to its due, 

That o'er my lyre, you yearn^ — 

Perchance, when my poor touch is weah, 
To sivell it with a touch more grand, — 

Or wake such chords as scorn to speak^ 
In answer to my hand, 
(13) 



X)ebtcatton. 



Oh 1 Let rae keep my tender dream^ 
If dream it be;— for like a star. 

It beckons me to flights that seem 
Strong-winged^ as poets' are. — 

Such dreams are but the spells of Hope; 

And Hope must shine within the heart. 
Else in Despair's dense dar\ we grope. 

And miss the goals of Art 



You did not miss your single goal; 

But gained it surely as the bird 
Its eyrie-nest^ above the roll 

Of waves its wings have stirred. 

And even as it was the height^ 

The one and only height^ for you, — 

You stand a victor in Death's sight,— ^ 
Your mark of Life^ sped trv^. 

One carps, '■''His height ivas far beneath 
The higher goals toward which they strain. 

Who scale, to win Art's classic wreath, 
The peaks he did not gain.^^ 

Another smiles, "iVb master he. 
But just a minstrel at Art^s gate; 

Whose place among the good may he, 
But not beside the great^^ 
(13) 



(Eo mg (fattier. J 



They err I — Whx) fills the middle place^ ' 

Between the lowly and the high, 

Commands, alike, their dual grace, I 

By joint affinity. ^ 

And he who stands no artisan. 

Nor yet pure artist, Art beside, — 
Is he whom Art proclaims the man 

Whose mission is world-wide, j 

I 
As noble His, to wing the world, — 

The many, for an Artward flight, \ 

As just to speed the winged few, whirVd \ 

To Art^s supremest height I — 

Dear, what are words ? — Nor loss, nor gain I \ 

By souls you tuned to smiles and tears, \ 

We know your minstrel prelude-strain, 
The music of the spheres I 



For Music, you were wont to claim 
That it is purest of the Arts, — 

That never thought for angeVs shame^ 
Survived it, in mens^ hearts. 

And for the true musician^ s place, 

You claimed a throne beside the priest; 

Since both, you said, redeemed the base^ 
And blessed both great and kasL 
(U) 



Dcbtcatiott. 



If such he truth, Love, you reap 
Rich harvest, for the seed of song ^ 

You sowed so lavishly and deep^ 
Lifers fallow way, along ! 

To me, too, falls a virgin plot 

Of Human Life, to make, or maim,' 

Love, grant that it dishonor not 
The honor of your name! 



(15) 



ProIo<gue, 



prologue. 



PASSPORTS. * 

Six knights rode up to the World's bright gate, 
Whose keys are Fortune, and Social State. 
Three only, entered with native ease; 
The social passports they bore, were these:— 



"JSir Knightj thy passport / " 

^'I bear it, -LINE! 
My blood is old as the grapes' red wine; 
In royal pulses it surged, of yore, 
Of chief, and monarch, and conqueror. 
Like haunted rivers, its death-tides glow, 
With ruthless slaughter of friend and foe; 
For War and Ravage, their weapons wield 
Upon its scutcheon's barbaric field. 
Whose coat-of-arms lifts a reeking blade. 
From breast and bosom of man and maid!'* 

* Dedicated to the "Western Authors' and Artists' Club," of 
Kansas City, Mo. 

(19) 



Passports. 



The World's gate-keeper, quoth he,— 

^^King^s kin 
Can do no evil Pass in I Pass in I " 

II. 

"Sir Knightj thy passport / " 

''I share it, -GOLD ! 
For me, by Judas, the Christ was sold. 
I rock Man's cradle, I haunt his grave; 
I make slaves, kings; and the King, a slave. 
I drain Youth's life, as he plies my search; 
I shut the poor from the Christian church: 
I make a thief of the honest man,-— 
The maid^ I turn to a courtesan. 
Nor saint, nor sinner, resists my lure, 
Though Christ, anew, be the forfeiture." 

The World's gate-keeper, quoth he,— 

'^Nb sin^ 
But Gold redeems it. Pass in / Pass in / " 

II. 

^^Sir KnigMy thy passport ! ^^ 

''I wear it, -FAME! 
The wide world rings with my evil name. 
If famed for Beauty of form or face. 
For Prominence in the social place, 



prologue. 



For Power wielded by force of arm, 

Or chance of fortune, for human harm; 

For Wrong, unshamed by the blush of Right; 

For Pleasure's revel, or Passion's blight; 

For Woman's anguish, by light Love, wrought; 

Or Man's Dishonor,— it matters naught!" 

The World's gate-keeper,— 

^^ Success shrives sinf^ 
(Quoth he.) ^^By laurels^ pass in! Pass inf" 



But shut the gate on the other three. 

^^ I know ye not! Pass ye on!^' (Quoth he.) 



Three knights rode on, to a gate afar,— 
On bright Bohemia's verge, ajar. 
The common passport for lord and liege, 
Is writ upon iiy—^^ Noblesse ohlige.^^ 
(21) 



passports. 



"A knight seeks entrance, by right of BRAIN ! ; 

Art, Science, Nature, are my domain. \ 

I rend the shackles of Ignorance, I 

Of Doubt, and Error, and Ordinance. ] 

Truth, Knowledge, Wisdom, I hold Mankind; ; 

I prove that Matter is slave to Mind. j 

Man's intellect, I exalt, refine, i 

From human level, to heights divine. I 

I yield to Death, when my doom arrives, — j 

Yet, down the ages, my fame survives!'' \ 



11. 



*'A knight seeks entrance, by might of HEART ! 

Divine, and human, of me are part. 

I knit all flesh, and I blend all blood. 

In tender union of Brotherhood. 

I sway the man, when his strong hand saves 

The sad, and erring, from hopeless graves. 

I sway the w^oman, whose gentle breast 

Allures the weary and lone, to rest. 

With Love, I level the king and clod;— 

On Love's pure pinion, speed man to God!" 



Prologue. 



III. 

**A knight seeks entrance, by height of SOUL ! 
In me, the thunders of God^s Voice, roll. 
Divinely bidden, my strong wings thresh 
The human sin, from the human flesh. 
With Dream, Desire, Unrest, Pain, Strife, 
I subtly chasten Man's mortal life. 
Yet, curse not,— bless me; for suiSFering 
Eobs Life, of evil; and Death, of sting! 
The goal of spirit, from flesh set free, 
I, Soul, hold Man:— Immortality / ^^ 



The three passed in, by the open gate, 
That guards the land of the truly great. 



Line, Gold, and Fame, in the World, rejoice :- 
Soul, Heart, and Brain, are Bohemia's choice! 



W 



3ot|emta. 



BOHEMIA. 

"/'c? rather live in Bohemia^ than in any other land,^^* 
Proclaimed Bohemia's singer, in a paean sweet, 

as grand. 
And echoing him who loved it, for its open 

heart and hand, 
*'/'d rather live in Bohemia, than in any other 

land!'' 

Mankind's dominions are many; for the poor, 

the Land of Toil,— 
A human, shuddering ant-hill, in the clutch of 

Labor's coil. 
A Midland stretches beyond it, for the Dolt's 

and Bigot's feet. 
Where ^'Commonplace," is the watchword; and 

the Mean and Stupid, meet. 

The Land of Pleasure, is only for a chosen 

brotherhood :— 
Its god, is Mammon the golden; and its kings, 

the Blue of Blood. 

♦John Boyle O'Reilly. 



prologue. 



The light, and idle, and aimless, who are drones 

in Life's great hive, 
There, reap the harvests of Labor, and the 

fruits of souls that strive. 

The noble name, may be found, there; but the 
noble man, is miss'd; 

For Flesh is slayer of Spirit; and the Heart's 
sure exorcist. 

And Mind's intelligent monarchs, and the line- 
age of Art, 

And Genius' sons and daughters, in their pur- 
ple stand apart. 

Oh! These abide in the country, that is famous, 

near and far,— 
The chosen land of the artists, the divinest men 

that are : — 
Where Wealth may knock for a lifetime, with 

its proud and titled kin. 
And native Poverty answer, —^^rbM shall never 

enter iji /" 

For Fortune's haughtiest fav'rite, storms Bo- 
hemia in vain. 

Who lacks the passport of Genius, Ideality, or 
Brain :— 



3oI|cmta. 



Immortals, fleeing the lowlands, where the 

Sybarites delight; 
To seek Bohemia's summit, that is Life's ideal 

height. 

Here, bide the brush of the painter, and the pen 

of poet, and sage; 
The sculptor's marvellous chisel, and the Stars 

that crown the stage; 
Wliile Music, Art of the angels, whose Hosannas 

hail the throne, 
Imparts its heavenly secret to Bohemia alone. 

The Dream that rouses a nation, and the Thought 

that bears great deeds; 
The Hope sustaining the Human, and the Right 

that smites Wrong's seeds i 
The Good that grapples with Evil, and the Truth 

whose verdicts stand. 
Are born and bred of ideals, in Bohemia's 

bright land. 

The brotherhood of Bohemia, is fraternity, in- 
deed; 

For sage and scientist follow, where its dream- 
ful artists, lead. 



prologue. 



The failure sips with the famous, of the love- 
cup at its board, 

And rival challenges rival, with a smile, and 
not a sword! 

And so, I echo the singer, who was man, and 

artist, both;— 
Who loved Bohemia's dreamer, as he scorned 

Convention's G-oth. 
And tho', unworthy Art's service, I can only 

wait and stand,— 
" Id rather live in Bohemia^ than in any other landT 



(27) 



Ct^c plaa of life. 



THE PLAY OF LIFE. 

«* All the world's a stage 1 " — 

Its play is Life. 
Men and women wage 

Its human strife. 
Some win valiantly, 

Wliile others lose; 
Loss, or victory. 

Is ours to choose. 
None, for hero-parts, 

Are cast by Fate,— 
None, for rival arts 

Of love and hate. 
Man, his fate controls; 

No Kismet- rod 
Rules the free-wilVd souls 

Of sons of God! 

Whence has come the plot,- 
And who designed 

Parts as polyglot 
As human kind? 



prologue. 



Heaven's own, must be 

The play that shrines 
Immortality, 

Within its lines!— 
Infinite its roleSj 

For finite east; 
One for all our souls, 

From first to last. 
Child, and woman; aye, 

And youth, and man,— 
Each has part to play, 

In God's vast plan! 

Farce or tragedy. 

Or drama, is't? — 
In Humanity, 

Alike subsist 
Peace and battle, both; 

And loss and gain; 
Fates of star and moth; 

And bliss, and pain; 
Laughter, born of smiles, 

And sobs, of tears; 
Pleasure's subtle wiles, 

For Youth, and Years: 
Passions fierce as flames; 

And Love,— (God's breath!)- 
'Neath the dual names 
Of Life and Death, 



Ctic plag of £ife. 



Fail not play divine, 

O actors brave! 
Heaven's laurels shine 

Beyond the grave. 
Serve the world's grand stage 

With hero-souls,— 
Claim, in Youth and Age, 

Life's highest rohs. 
Leave not in his part, 

To fall or stand, 
Him of fainting heart, 

And failing hand. 
To the weak, hold aid; 

And peace, to strife; — 
Nobly, thus, is play'd 

God's Play of Life. 



(30) 



prologue. 



NATURE'S MIRROR. 

What is thy spell, O Stage! 
Luring both Youth and Age? 
What is thy charm, O Play! 
Lauded by grave and gay? 
What are the actor's arts, 

Making him more than man,— 
Master of human hearts. 

Over the world's wide span? 

Haughty and humble, bring 
Tribute to him, as king. 
Sinner and saint consort. 
Servitors of his court. 
Hero of poet's theme, 

Winner of Love's queen-flow'r,- 
What is his sway supreme? 

What is his mystic power? 

Foot-lights, that fascinate? 
Splendor of mimic state? 
Powder, and rouge, and kohl,— 
Graces and tricks of rdlef 
(31) 



nature's UTtrror/* 



Beauty of form and face? ' 

Nay! It were gross offence, ^ 

Virginal Art to place ] 

Thus, with the lures of sense! i 

i 

Genius, the gift divine, 

Peerless, and pure and fine; i 

Talents that flash like flame, > 

Challenging men's acclaim; . j 

Eloquent voice and speech; ■ 

Passions that thrill the heart:— t 

Even these fail to reach i 

Soul of the actor's art. 

Deeper his secret lies, | 
Subtler its mysteries; 

Deep as the soul of man, . i 

Subtle as Life's great plan. • 

His is the art to limn i 

Living Humanity: — ■ 
This is the spell of him; 

This is his alchemy! ': 

'] 

^^ Mirror of Nature ! " Thus \ 

Triumphs his genius. • 

His, to reflect mankind, j 
Spirit, and heart, and mind;— 
(32) 



prologue. 



Doing its good and ill, 

Loving and hating well;— 

Even as mortals will, 

Serving both heaven and hell! 

Truth is his mercury; 
Mirroring faithfully, 
Minus its social dress, 
Nude in its humanness,— 
Life; whose impassioned strain 

Pierces Art's shibboleth t— 
**Travail, and bliss, and pain ; 

Living, and Love, and Death/" 

Priest of mankind, is he, 
Preaching Humanity. 
Master of Avorst and best 
Secrets of mortal breast. 
Render of shams that hide 

Man from his brother-man,— 
Imaging, side by side, 

Artist and artisan. 

Honor his creedless shrine! 
Many a seed divine, 
Thrives in its charity, 
Shaming the Pharisee, 
• (83) 



Haturc's JHirror." \ 



Many a heart has heard, 
Under the actor's rokf 

God's omnipresent Word, 

Warning the sinner's soul. 



"is 



Men, by his hero-parts. 
Prove, or disprove, their hearts. 
Women, Sin's wages, ken, 
Weeping with Magdalen. 
High, be his art esteemed; 

Thus, be his shield engraved t- 
"Afany a man redeemed; 

Many a woman saved T^ 

^^ Mirror of Naturey Aye I 
Tragic, or light, the play 
Images bad and good 
Manhood and womanhood. — 
Laurels, and rose, and bays, 

Then, for the actor's art. 
Love, for the man!— Sole praise 

Worthy his human heart! 



(34) 



prologue. 



THE AMATEUR. 

<Wlth thanks and apologies, to James Jeffrey Roche's 
"V-a s-e.") 

There met, in Gotham, from towns afar, 

Five stage-struck maidens, who yearned to star. 

One favored Boston; one, Baltimore; 
New York, Chicago, made up the four. 

The fifth, in Paris, the town of Worth, 
Had lost forever, her Yankee birth ! 

They smiled, en masse, on the manager, 
Whose cynic bosom began to stir. 

He hid his weakness, with Spartan guile, 
And eyed with hauteur, the maiden-file. 

Quoth he,~''Youth, beauty, alone, you bring?''-^ 
Cried Rye, in chorus, ''We dance, and sing !" 

Quoth he, ''Dance song, are plebeian things; 
Art claims the prestige, that Cultchaw brings ! 

I put you all to a single test,— 
Engaged is she, who survives it best!" 
(3^ 



Cljc Clmateut. 



A thrill went thrilling thro' each thrilled breast, 
As all five answered, ''We dare the test!*' 

Quoth he, *'Who yearneth to be a star, 
Pronounce me Ama— ^,— e,— m,— r /" 

The quintette laughed in triumphant glee,— 
Each maiden certain a star to be. 

The western maid, whom the East called boor. 
Said, ''What's the matter with AmatoorF" 

Laughed Dixey's daughter, "You're out, for 

su'ah; 
I reckon i^m just an AmeLchu'ah / 

Sobbed she from Boston, "I cawn't endure 
Such free translations of Ama^wre." 

Whereat, the Gothamite shuddered, "Sir, 
New York's the place for an Amacheurr 

The maddened manager tore his hair, 
And smote the four with a stony stare t— 

Till she from Paris exclaimed, "Ye err, 
O desecrators of Anvdteur/ " 

Rejoiced the manager, "Right you are!'* 
And number five, is a tragic star. 
(8^ 



prologue. 



AS THE PLAY BEGINS. 

As the curtain lifts, aad the play begins, 

From the house an audible murmur swells, 

That silences with the violins, 
As the stage unfolds its spells. 

For the myths that sunder our common clay, 

In the foot-lights' radiance, fade away; 

And the box responds, with the gallery, 
To the Drama's human key. 

Then the man's thought turns to his boyish lif e,— 
To the days when dreaming and deed, were 
one; 
When victory was the meed of strife, 
And the race was his, e'er run!— 
And tho' Life's sharp lessons, have made him 
And a shadow saddens his shining eyes, [wise, 
Yet the Future's his; and its span of hopes 

With the play's bright vista, opes!— 

And the woman's heart, as the cui*tain lifts, 

Feels a thrill, recalling the thrill of youth; 

When Life o'erbrimm'd with the gods' sweet gifts, 
That we drain but once, in truth. 
(87) 



Cls tl^c plag "Begins, 



And her eyes are softer, for tear that starts, 
As the play reminds her of girlish parts 
That are hei''s no more, in the tangled plan 
Of the drama, youth began! 

Yet, her tear is sweeter than smile of lip, 

For it shimmers straight from her woman- 
heart; 
Whose human shrine may with life-blood drip. 

Yet, of heaven, hoard a part.— 
For tho' Life s aurora, with youth must go, 
Love's diviner glory survives its glow;— 
And the man beside her, a heart throb wins, 
As the mimic love begins. 

So the old and young, and the rich and poor 
From the humble lad, with his manly heart, 

(Whom God calls son, and the world calls boor,—) 
To the maid in box apart: 

From the white-Jiiaired woman, in hood and shawl, 

To the youth below, in the velvet stall,— 

By the Drama's universal power, 

Are as kindred, for the hour. 

For old Human Nature's the same in all,— 
In the man, and woman, and little child; 

And naught divides, but a social wall, 
By Convention's hand, up-piled t— 
(38) 



prologue. 



And whate'er appeals to the woman's heart, 
Thrills the lady, cast for Life's gilded part; 
And the gentleman of the social plan. 
Only masks the human man! 

So, as curtain lifts, and the act begins, 
Oh! The play is only Truth's domino; 

And smiles and tears, that its action wins, 
Are for human bliss and woe. 

For the Drama mirrors Man's mortal life; 

And its common pleasures, and pain, and strife. 

To the hearts of all, since to heart of each, 
By their ^^touch of Nature," reach! 

And the subtile murmur that greets the play, 
And the latent passions its truths reveal. 

Are glowing, murmuring, night and day, 
'Twixt the Sexes' flint and steel. 

And the human heart, that the Drama tests, 

Is divine, alike, in all human breasts,— 

Sine© Humanity, is, in like degree, 
Heir to Immortality. 



m 



tDttl^ 23oI?emta'5 Utany^ 



XOit^ Boticmia's IHanfl. 



THE SINGER. 

From my lips* red portal, I hear it float,— 
The immortal spirit of Song;— the note 
Of the bird, whose cage is my woman-throat, 

Singing, singing. 

From my soul's tense silence, I feel it start. 
On the soaring wings of the vocal art: 
And the bird's soft flight, sets my woman heart 

Singing, singing. 

Oh! The earth is hushed of its stress and strife, 
And the world, with music, alone, is rife; 
As the bird's sweet voice floods my woman-life, 

Singing, singing. 

Down the years of days, and the years of nights, 
Like a sky-lark*s song from celestial heights, 
Throb the golden strains of its vocal flights, 

Singing, singing- 
All the mystic dreams, in the hearts of men, 
That the rue of Life, with its rapture, ken;— 
(And the twain are one, to the alien 

Singing, singing.) 



(EI^c Singer. 



For the human octaves of Joy, and Pain, j 

Are but keys attuning Life's prelude-strain, j 

To the perfect chords of the soul's refrain, ' 

Singing, singing— j 

To the man and woman, with equal art, ] 

Tho' they reign in palace, or toil in mart;— ) 

For immortal yearnings, in all lives, start, ] 

Singing, singing. \ 



And the Singer stands but the instrument ; 

Of Humanity, that demands a vent 
For the pain and bliss in its mute soul pent, 

Singin , singing,- 

Of the day, when Life, with a swan-song note, j 

From the human heart, and the singer's throat, . 

Unto Paradise, like a bird, shall float, | 

Singing, singing. 



m 



IDitl^ Bot\emia"s IHan^. 



A PAINTER, TO HIS PICTURES. 

You hang upon your natal walls, 

Un tempted to desert them; 
No eager Public, for you, calls; 
No lovers lure to noble halls.— 
They gaze, instead, from play-house stalls, 

On beauties that pervert them! 

Immortal Art, mad men would crush, 
For Nature's fleeting passion. 

The patrons of the painter's brush, 

Now, o'er his living models, gush. 

As man and artist, both, I blush:— 
Tho' blushing 's out of fashion! 

The 'living Picture," is the fade- 
Pure Art, pines, melancholy. 

With lord and lady, maid and lad; 

The rage is, Nature, good or bad; 

And lovely Woman makes an ad. 
Of beauties, once held holy! 
(45) 



Q painter to fjis pictures. 



Lone ladies of my canvas, wait! — 
Your day, again, is dawning. 

The * 'Living Picture,'' thanks to Fate, 

Soon passes out Youth's golden gate;— 

(Which exit bids her abdicate 

The triumphs you are mourning). 

The Fountain of Eternal Youth 
Is yours', defying stricture; 
While Nature's colors, crude, uncouth, 
Your fading rival rues, in truth, 
So swiftly, that she claims your ruth,— 
Poor, passee ''Living Picture." 

The menace of her beauty's loss. 

With each new day, grows louder; 
Tho' foot-lights lend a specious gloss, 
And chalk and rouge, her face emboss.— 
(Their heads, my scornful ladies, toss. 
They paint, but do not powder!) 

True, "Living Pictures" leave behind 
Successors, to reflect them.— 

Who, like their antecedent kind, 

Soon vanish from the front, "Declined!''- 

To dark Oblivion, assigned, 

When backgrounds, too, reject them. 
(46) 



rOitti Boticmia's lUang. 



Then grudge them not their fleeting wage,- 

(It, like themselves, is mortal;) 
ye, whose rivals of the stage, 
Shall be inscribed, on Clio's page, 
As waifs of Nature's parentage, 

And outcasts, from Fame's portal! 

My paintings, spare your bays, awhile !- 

By beauty ever vernal. 
At Nature's triumph, you may smile; 
For future ages shall revile 
The ^'Living Pictures" now in style,— 

While Art's reign, is eternal! 



(47) 



£l}e VOxiUt, 



THE WRITER. 

Ink, and paper, and pen; pen, and paper and 

ink!- 
These, with a heart to feel,— these, with a brain 

to think 
Passions and thoughts of Life, thrilling both 

flesh and soul, 
Talismans are, to him, seeking the writer's goal. 
Hues, for the painter's brush; blade, for the 

sculptor's stone; 
Harp, for the minstrel's hand; stage, for the 

actor's throne; 
Song, for the singer's voice.— But, for the triple 

link 
Unto the writer's art,— paper, and pen, and 

ink! 

Give him but these alone, richer than king, is 

he;— 
Heaven and earth, alike, his, as art's votary. 
Be it of gold or steel, royal his pen, in sway 
Over the hearts of men,— wherefore, no man 

shall say. 

(48) 



tVitii Bol^emia's IHatta. 



Subtlest of arts that are, this, of the writer^s, is; 
Finite and Infinite, both, are its mysteries. 
Others nmy charm the sense. His, is the art 

that brings 
Home to the human soul, love of immortal 

things. 

Woman, and child, and man, wait on the writ- 
er's thought; 

Ever, with dream, or truth, message, or lesson, 
fraught.— 

Mentor of young and old, friend of the gay and 



His, is the human art, thralling both good and 

bad! 
Palace^ and cottage, too, ring with his living 

words,— 
Here, with a poet-verse, sweet as the song of 

birds; 
There, with a chord of prose, throbbing, like 

organ-tone, 
Low as the captive's cell; high, as the monarch's 

throne. 

Into the dreamer's den, piercing the garret- 
roof, 

Under the student's lamp, burning in nook 
aloof,— 

4 (49) 



(Etjc rDriter. 



Into the humble home, staying the youth, 

within J— 
Into the maiden's heart, virginal dreams to 

spin;— 
Sharing the priest's lone cell, crowning the rich 

man's shelves; 
Luring the sick and sad, out of their hapless 

selves,— 
Sowing the fallow mind, filling the empty 

heart,— 
Such are the few and least ways of the writer's 

art* 

Only the writer knows measure of bliss and 

pain, 
Brimming his human breast; flooding his artist- 
brain. 
Deeply, the writer drains bitter, and sweet, 

of cup, 
Nature and art, allied, -mix, for the man to sup. 
Ever, the writer's soul, waging its lonely 

strife, 
Faces the end divine, crowning the means of 

Life. 
Daily, the writer's life, vanquishes Death's 

own throe,— 
Throe of a spirit spurred higher than flesh can 

go! 

m 



Wtiti Bofiemia's ItTang. 



Life is a myth, to him: only its dreams are 

real: 
His, is a lyric soul, timed to a key ideal. 
Goals that the World pursues, he, by art's 

vestal lightj 
Sees, for the shams they are,— Wrongs, in the 

guise of Right. 
Piercing the human mask, scorning the social ban. 
Ever, his eyes illumed, seek the immortal 

Man. 
Man, that the multitude hail not, for what he is,— 
Image of God,-— Divine, cast in humanities. 

**Dreamer?"— Of true dreams, yes! Doer, as 

well, is he;— 
Solving, for brother-men, Life's common mys- 
tery. 
Bleeding his soul, for ink; probing, with pen, 

his heart: 
Writing, for men to read,.Message Divine, of art. 
Only the writer's words, trained to the people's 

speech. 
Life's grand apocalypse, prove, to the heart of 

each. 
Only the writer's pen, serving both great and 

small, 
Sows art's immortal seed, Truih^^in the souls of 

aU. 

(51) 



d 23Iuc Stocking's Ultimatum. 



A BLUE-STOCKING'S ULTIMATUM. 

Ah, thank you! Yes, I have done— not badly; 

The people love me, the critics praise. 
And you?— You married. I heard it, gladly; 

So you wear roses, while I win bays. 
And Love has cast you its crowning treasure, 

This wee, sweet daughter, upon your knee. — 
Your cup o'er-brims with the gods' own measure, 
Denied to me! 

Not one gray hair, though you have been married! 

I?— Wedded, too,— to my dear old Muse. 
Sweet Cupid grudges the darts I've parried, 
And slights me, now, that I've joined the 
*^Blues." 
The old romance that you used to play on, 

Ebbs daily out, on a tide of ink; 
And, since Fame favors my busy crayon, 
All's well, I tliink. 

Yet, no!— You being a grave old father, — 
I own, quite frankly, to lonely times, 

When laurels crown me, like ashes, rather; 

And tears, for stops, blot my merry rhymes j 
(52) 



IDitti Botiemta's lUang. 



When Life's glow, fades, like a taper wasted 

In fruitless search for a fabled goal; 
Because Love's wine, by most women tasted, 
Warms not my soul. 

" You love me F" Thanks. I am honored, truly. 
Reserve your love, for your wife's sole 
claim! — 
** Your wife is dead? You have mourned her, duly; 

And woo we, now, in our old Love's name f 
You married only in pique, and passion, 
When I coquetted, with rival Pelff^ 
Ah! Yours was love, after man's own fashion,— 
The love of Self! 

The wo bares, what the girl had hidden! 

In Friendship's name, I may dare be true. 
Your second suit, like your first, is bidden 

By Love, predestined, between us two. 
You were my fate, and I missed you! Proved me, 

By heart that answers your heart, alone. 

Yet you must pass, like the rest who loved me.— 

I am art's own! 

We women born with the poet-print on us, 
Are set apart, by the songs we sing. 

Art's golden birthright, that feigns to sun us, 
Is dusk with shadows of suffering. 
(53) 



d 23Iue Stocking's Ultimatum. 



A mystic circle is round us, plainly, 

That sunders surely, from love and mate; 

And, like caged birds, our poor hearts beat 

vainly 

The bars of fate. 

If you had won me in Life's young morning,— 
(And patient wooing, had been to win, 

Tho' Art, already, had rung its warning;)— 
My life had nestled your love within. 

But now, the woman's brief day, is over,— 
The sexless artist, usurps her place; 

And art is victor of hiunan lover, 
In Life's brief race. 

Then, let us part; as the Fates decreed it, 

Ere our kin spirits, to flesh were wed. 
If Nature struggles, we must not heed it; 

Love's ultimatum, my lips have said. 
I soar aloft, to art's vestal niches 

We women miss, when Love clips our wings; 
And yield my birthright of Love's sweet riches. 
For rarer things! 

********* 

My friend remains, though I lose my lover.— 
Then, why my heart's sudden chill and gloom? 

Ah! Love is ever pure art's disprover. 
As lord and master of woman's doom. 
(54) 



VOittt Botiemia's Hlany. 



" / love you F" Yes !— Yet, Love's book shuts 
over, 
In art's name, sealed by tkis woman-tear! — 

Unless — unless — you should rend the cover 
Despite me^ dear I 



m 



dljc Clngcl of tt|e IPings. 



THE ANGEL OF THE WINGS. 

Her father was but a ^'fly-man," 

Who shifted scenes, o'erhead; 
A sensitive, quiet, shy man. 

Whose happiness was dead. 
One read in the melancholy 

That marred his handsome face, 
Life's bitter, and sad old story 

Of faithless Love's disgrace. 
He'd married for love,— and rued it. 

The girl was frail, as fair; 
And, playing with Sin, pursued it, 

Till lured within its lair. 
She fled from her husband's cottage, 

And little child,— ah, me! 
Her birthright of Love, for pottage, 

Resigned eternally. 

We knew the man's shady story. 
And liked him for his grit; 

So, knowing his child, his glory, 
We favored him, a bit: 
(66) 



TOitii Boljcmta's ItTang. 



And cheered, when the stage-door's warder, 

Announced, with visage mild, 
The manager's standing-order 

To pass the shifter's child. 
The nights were so long and lonely, 

She wept, at home alone, — 
The child who had father only, 

No mother of her own! • 

The Star, with a kiss, installed heF 

In Al sight of things, 
And all of us actors called her, 

"The Angel of the Wings!" 

The child was a five-year beauty,— 

A blonde of vivid style; 
Who thought it her nightly duty 

To kiss all round, and smile. 
We loved her at sight, forever: 

And her pure heart returned 
Such rapturous love, as never 

A man or woman earned. 
She witnessed the play sedately, 

And wisely as an owl; 
Applauding the soubrette, greatly,— 

(The villain made her scowl:) 
(57) 



CCtic angcl of ttje XPings, 



And cheering the handsome hero, 
Who saved the Star from harm.— 

When houses were cold as zero,— 
Our Angel kept us warm! 

The properties were her treasures,— 

Ideal childish toys I— 
But greatest of all her pleasures, 

The Drama's mimic joys.— 
She toyed with the paints and powder, 

She rouged her nose, and laughed; 
She sipped,— when the supes allow'd her. 

The stage-wine's vapid draught. 
She snapp'd the stage-gun, and shivered; 

Lisped, "jfTianM/"— Then, sped away,- 
Eeturned to the wings, and quivered 

With interest in the play. 
And, Oh! When we staged a Drama 

That used a baby,— m^/ 
1*11 never get round, in grammar 

The size of baby's hit! 

She waited outside to meet it, 
She watched it to the street. 

She spoon'd it, as tho' she'd eat it,— 
She called it, *Htile thweet/'* 
(58) 



VOii^ Bot^cmia's IHang. 



And when it was moped, or cranky, 

If we dared cross the sill, 
She flared like a fighting Yankee, 

And whispered, '' Pleathe he thtilll** 
She guarded its noxious bottle, 

Like wine from royal vat; 
And when we all itched to throttle. 

She kissed the screeching brat.— 
In short, she was ''Little Mother;** 

And gave that stage-struck tot, 
Her love for the sister, brother, 

And mother, she had not! 

One night, I shall ne'er forget it, 

The house was crammed square thro'; 
(The Drama was good,— I bet it! 

It ran for years, and drew.) 
Our Angel was there, in beauty, 

The baby's part was done; 
The shifter was ''flied," on duty, 

And I was staged, alone. 
When, flash!— Of a sudden, started 

Above the stage, a light. 
The Public is chicken-hearted,— 

The deuce for taking fright! 
(59) 



Ct^e Ctngcl of ttje IDtngs. 



The gallery rose, in panic,-- 

A lively scoot ensued;— 
And meantime, the flames Satanic, 

Beat love, for latitude! 

1 shouted out, ^^Keep your places ! ^* 

I challenged men to stay. 
My answer was fear-blanched faces, 

And shrieks of mad dismay. 
The women lost grit, and fainted: 

Men trampled them, and swore. 
(I never was quite acquainted 

With my brave sex, before.) 
The balconies wavered wildly 

From windows, back to stairs; 
The boxes,— to put it mildly,— 

Forsook their royal airs. 
The people were soon one swirling, 

Mad, grappling, human mass:— 
While, higher, the flames went curling, 

Like snakes of burnished brass. 

I knew that all hope was over, 
And faced the burning wings. 

The smoke, like an opaque cover, 
Obscured familiar things. 
(60) 



tt>tttj Botjemta's tttartB, 



I staggered, an instant only,— 

The shock was sharp, you seat 
And * 'starring*' was getting lonely. 

As well as hot, for me! 
No trace of a man or woman ^ 

Beneath the blazing flies;— 
No voice of a fellow-human 

Responded to my cries. 
I called once again, and waited.—^ 

A single sound returned,— 
The hiss of the still unsated 

Fire-serpents, as they burned! 

I sank to the floor: blind, strangled, 

By smoke, and scorching heat! — 
The corridor turned and tangled, 

Then slanted to the street. 
The flames had just leaped upon it, — 

They fooled around my hair; — 
I missed the turn, first;— then won it;- 

Hurrah,— a breath of air! 
I dashed to the street, and shouting, 

''Tliank Godr I raved about, 
Excited, and never doubting 

That all were safely out!— 
(61) 



Ctjc Clngcl of tl^e IDtngs. 



******** 
(These scenes from the past, confuse me; 

I'm weak as any clown. 
Confound it!— My years excuse me. 

Remembrance breaks me down.)- 

The engines dashed up, and halted, 

With ladders, hose and all; 
The gallant brigade-boys vaulted 

The doomed, flame-gutted wall. 
When, hark! From the rabble, shivered 

A shout that reached God's sky, 
As over the din there quivered 

A child's pathetic cry. 
I sprang in the sound's direction; 

When thro' the stage-door came,| 
With smutted and smoked complexion, 

And gold curls singed by flame;— 
(Her joy that she'd saved another, 

Surpassing child-alarms,)— 
Our Angel, the 'Xittle Mother," 

With baby in her arms! 

Before I could struggle near her. 

She smiled, with lips like chalk, — 

Then,— Oh! How the crowd did cheer her! 
She called across the walk: — 
(62) 



IPitij Botjemia's ttlang. 



*' Thefolkth allfordot the haby^ 
But Tve dot Am, tha/e here." 

(I'm only a darned old gaby,— 

Excuse another tear!) 
******** 
Then, just as across the gutter, 

I bounded to the two,— 
More faintly, I heard her mutter, 

" Bereth hahy'th bottle, too I " 
And then, (for her fright confused her, 

Now he was safe from hai'm. 
Whose rescue had burned and bruised her,)— 

She fainted on my arm! 

Say, wasn't our Angel plucky? 

When flames began to skate, 
The rest of the troupe were lucky, 

And off, for quite a wait. 
They heard the alarm of ''fire!'*— 

And scooting to the streets,— 
They didn't stroll back to hire 

The best, reserved, front seats! 
The baby,— whose mother waited 

Upon the star-soubrette,— 
Was sleeping, (with ''Syrup" sated). 

And might be sleeping yet,— 
(63) 



Ct^c Clnqd of ttje iDings. 



Or one of the cherub-number, 

Who twang the harp's gold strings,— 
Is she hadn't watched his slumber,— 

Our Angel of the Wings! 

Afar from the wings' confusion, 

Beyond the footlights' flash,— 
Secreted from our intrusion, 

She'd rocked her infant-mash. 
The fright of the flames, had dazed her; 

And when her senses woke, 
The panic and peril crazed her,— 

Yet, motherhood still spoke :— 
My shout,— (thank the gods, I gave it!)— 

Dispelled Fear's lethargy. 
" 2he baby ! 0, ihave it ! Thave iiP 

She'd panted in reply.— 
Between us, the dense smoke's surging 

Disguised her tones; but she 
Had followed my voice, emerging 

In safety, after me. 

O, valiant *^Little Mother!'' 

Down Time, your story rings, 

Immortal as countless other 
Heroic woman-things! 
(64) 



VOxii} Botjemia's HtanH. 



My tale is a truth, not fable.— 

To-day, her fame is sure, 
As artist, unique, and able; 

As woman, good and pure. 
I would that her father saw it, 

(He died, poor chap, that nights 
Yet, how shall we dare deplore it?— 

Death set his wronged life, right.) 
The baby's a man, confound him! 

Whom she still calls sweet things, 
And lovingly ^'mothers" round him,— 

Our Angel of the Wings! 



(65) 



Ctje 0rcijestra. 



THE ORCHESTRA. 

Quite a common mood of the maiinh^ 
Is the dismal sense, that I cannot play;— 
That my laughter's sharp as a feline strain, 
And my jDathos flat as last night's champagne. 
That my hauteur's hot, and my passion cool; 
And my tragedy, from a Misses' school. 
And success seems hopeless, and failure sure,— 
Till the orchestra starts the overture. 

Then a charm steals over my failing heart, 
And I glow anew, with the bliss of art; 
And I rush the rouge, and its Idndred tilings, 
And resort in haste, to the stage's wings. 
For the Music's passion and harmony, 
Are an inspiration and spur to me; 
And the flame that Idndles the stage-Star's rdh^ 
Is the orchestra's art-impassioned soul. 

As the 'cellos surge, and the viols sway, 
Life's discordant echoes are lull'd away; 
And the bond and burden of common things. 
Take supernal flight, on the Music's wings: 
(66) 



Witii Bolicmia's ntanfl. 



For the human gains the celestial, 
And the real is lost in the rhythmical; 
As the subtle visions of art allure, 
In the haunting strains of the overture. 

Then the mood that fettered artistic flight, 

Is dispell'd like snow, in the sun's warm light; 

As the latent fever of art's desire 

Leaps from spark to flame, and from flame to fire. 

So I take the stage, with impassioned heart, 

For the loves, and hates, of my mimic part; 

And, if Nature loses, divine art wins, 

By the sorcery of the violins. 

So the woman soars, by the Music's thrall, 
To the artist, tense, and emotional: 
And the Drama's anguish and bliss, are real, 
As I live, and die, in its world ideal. 
And as Fame accords me her glowing bays, 
'Mid the Public's cheers, and the artist's praise,— 
Oh! I pass them on, that all men may see,— 
To the orchestra that inspired me! 

And, perchance, the lesson that speaks to me, 
Has a moral, too, for Humanity; 
In the truth, appealing to hut and hall,— 
That a little Music's the need of all!— 

m 



CCt^e (Dtciiesiva, 



That the noble song, and the tender strain, 
Are the keys transposing Earth's harsh refrain, 
To the harmonies that the soul recalls, 
And shall hear again, when Life's curtain fallsl 



rOitt^ Bol^cmia's ntany. 



MISUNDERSTOOD. 

With all your heart in your pure eyes, 

You smiled at me. 
I gazed at you in cold surprise, 

Unsmilingly. 

You touched my hand,-by chance, or fate; 

(Which was it, sweet?) 
And blushed at my precipitate 

And brusque retreat. 

With candor born of innocence, 

You sought my side. 
I left you with indifference. 

That roused your pride. 

Now you, in turn, with proud and cold, 

Grave haughtiness, 
Ignore the man whose love untold, 

You do not guess! 

In Honor's name, be mute, O heart! 

Fate stands between 
The vassal of dramatic Art, 

And Fashion's Queeaa* 

m 



1 
trttsunbcrstoob. 1 



And tho' Love spans the space, indeed, 

Uniting souls, 
The Moloch of Convention's creed, 

Divides our roles. 

Therefore, my sweet, (since thus is writ 

Doom's stern decree. 
Defying Love to alter it, 

For you and me:)— 

Adieu! Unknowing, go your way 

With lovers rife,— 
That I, whom you loved for a day, 

Love you, for life! 



m) 



rDittj Bol^emta's tnany. 



L'INGENUE. 

My rivals swear I'm thirty; 

The bills omit my name; 
Behind, I'm fined as ^ ^flirty," 

In front, I'm hissed as 'Hame." 
The leading-man is hateful, 

The star won't even speak; 
And, worst of all, I'm grateful 

For only tAvelve per week. 

Rehearsals, all the morning; 

Sub-study, half the night; 
I'm cast without a warning, 

For parts I can't recite. 
I'm prompted nigh to madness; 

I breath, eat, sleep by rule — 
Oh! Wouldn't I, with gladness, 

Go back to boarding-school! 

Hy by-play's "amatoorish," 
My stage-walk is "a hopf ' 

My entrances are * 'boorish/' 
My exit is "a flop." 



£*3n3cnuc. 



In action, I'm ''lop-sided," 
Reposing, I'm "a show;" 

My "points" are all derided,— 
Ingknue^s price is low! 

If I be proud and haughty 

I'm ''sporting too much frillf ' 
When I am nice and naughty, 

The critics roast me still. 
I'm "stiff, and cold, and gawky," 

I'm "vulgar, bold, too fly." 
Oh, dear! Life's wine is corky. 

Ingknue wants to die! 

The foot-lights blind and daze me; 

I'm butt for all the gags; 
The managers half-craze me 

With all their surplus nags: 
The orchestra ignores me; 

The boxes smile and sneer; 
The front-row bald-head bores me,- 

The "gods" cry, "J-A, iherey d^arl^* 

The green-room's cold, or torrid,— 
The draughty wings, are chill; 

The supes are rude and horrid,— 
The chappies make me ill. 



VO'iiii Bol^emta's Iltang. 



The matinees would sicken 
A healthy, nine-lived cat; 

And one-night posters, thicken:— 
The road is getting flat! 

The paint spoils my complexion, 

My figure fades away; 
IVe had to pad a section 

Of my decollete, 
I haven't one real jewel; 

I've torn my swellest gown: 
The tragedy grows cruel,— 

I'll ring the curtain down. 

Young fools, old knaves, pursue me 

With gilded lures to sin,— 
The married actors woo me, 

The agent chucks my chin.^- 
I'm mother's girl, and will bel 

Tho', frankly let me state, 
The hits all fall to Trilby,— 

Jng^ue's out of date! 

Alas, for Stage-Land's foundling. 
Adrift on Art's vast wave;— 

The sport of every groundlings 
Tke Public's toy and slaVe! 



I'^ngenue. 



Perhaps you think I'm beaten? 

Well, I should smile!-Ha! ha!- 
Just wait, and see things sweet, when 

Ingenue is a star I 



m 



rOitt^ :3olicmia's IXian^. 



VOX POPULl. 

The proof of a drama's power 

As all of us actors know, 

Is not what the boxes shower 

Of eulogy comme ilfauty— 

Nor even the gracious favor 

That marks the reserved i9arg'W6<; 
Which always retains a savor 

Of, " What do the critics say ? " 
The balconies' praise is better, 

But awed by the box and stall; 
The gallery scorns their fetter, 
And towers above them all. 
The ^^gods" are the boys, I tell you, an actor 

exults to sway; 
The '^gods" are the honest critics, who make, or 
destroy, a play. 

^' Vox Populi '' is what thrills us, — 

The People's immortal voice! 
Whatever we are, it wills us:— 

The Star, like the supe, lacks choice. 
(75) 



Vox popull 



The patronage of the Classes, \ 

Exalts the man's little name: 
But only the human masses, \ 

Confer on the artist, Fame! 

The box, is art's golden factor, j 

Proclaiming its social sway:— j 

The gallery proves the actor, i 

The gallery proves the play! j 

For Nature's the test of Nature; and only the I 

People's heart, 
Is tuned to the drama's keynote of Nature, 

transposed to art! 5 



The soul, swathed in silk and satin; 

The heart, that conventions cage; 
The brain, bound in Greek and Latin,— 

Are puppets of Culture's age. 
The primal and pulsing Human, 

Perchance, 'neath their masks, may be, — 
But Gh! Nature's man and woman, 

Are honest Humanity. 
Their sentiments are not fashions. 

But Life-tides, that run their course; 
Their loves, and their hates, and passions, 

Gush freely, from vital source. 
(76) 



IDtttj Bot)cmta*s rnatty. 



False art, they discern, by instinct; and hiss 

to its death of shame. 
The art that is true to Nature, they cheer to 

the throne of Fame. 

And so, when a play is trembling 

'Twixt failure, and first success,— 
We actors are not dissembling, ■ 

Who gratefully say,— ''God bless 
The gallery- boys, who started 

The cheers, that the boxes shun!" 
For, were their applause half-hearted. 

Our triumph had ne'er been won. 
And back of the Drama's curtain, 

We pledge the true taste of such,— 
For, art the ''gods" cheer, be certain, 

Is thrilling with Nature's touch. 
And ever the Pure, and Noble, — (ideal, and 

real,) sway 
The gallery's human People, — the "gods" of 
the actors' play! 



(JfO 



a (Eoquettc of ttje Ballei 



A COQUETTE OF THE BALLET. 

Ah, ouif Monsieur * 'adores the stage, 
And me, Coquette, the season's rage." 

I thank Monsieur, with all my art. — 
NoTij non—I mean, with all my heart. 

Ah, naughty boy! I must not hear. 
Sad flattereur you are, I fear. 

'^Non V All the same, I run away; 
As woman must, who— dares not— stay! 

* ^Monsieur comes, too?" Ah, what a man! 
Coquette resists him, — while she can. 

Enough! Monsieur has conquered me! 
''To Del's?"— 1/bn clier Monsieur^ merci I 



"Sauterne, half-shells,— as we begin; 
A bird, sorbet, and terrapin;— 



IDittj Boticmta's Vflan^, 



Champagne; and after, eau de vieV— 
Monsieur provides me charmingly. 

Un reve d^amour— this feast divine! 
A kiss, Monsieur, I give— your wine. 

**You love me?"— So!-And if I, too, 
Am deep in love. Monsieur, with you?— 

I say not, no! I say not, jes\ 

My silence means,— Monsieur will guess. 

(del /—For my sake, recognize 
That all the world has open eyes!)— 

Adieu, Monsieur. I seek my home.— 
Non, I forbid that you shall come! 

Monsieur insists?— And Coquette, too!— 
Who shall be victor,— moi, or you?— 

Non, non^ non, nonf Still noTi, I say!— 
Ah! Wilful man!— Then, have your way. 



How sweet, n'est ce-pas .^— This too short ride,— 
Monsieur, Coquette, so,— side by side! 
(79) 



CI <£oquctte of ttjc Ballet. 



HelasI It ends.— Yet welcome here, 
Chez moi. Ascend, and share my cheer. 

One, two, three flights, and yet one more. 
Behold, my high, yet humble door! 

'^I live alone?^' Maisnonf Not so. 
Too lonely it would be, you know. 

I live with Jaque.— Appear, my page!— 
Monsieur,~w^ son;— just your own age I 



(80) 



XOiik Bot^emia's ntatty. 



DEAD-SEA FRUIT. 

Obedient to your command, 

Too sweet to lack concession, — 
Before your kind applause, I stand, 

Your debtor, past expression. 
Perchance, I owe you smile for smile,— 

Perchance, my thanks should laud you? 
The debt must wait an af terwhile,— 

To-night my tears defraud you! 

You marvel that my tears should flow, 

In face of your ovation.— 
Ah! All of weal, and all of woe, 

Are blent in Fame's libation. 
Its Circe-cup is bitter-sweet. 

Both rose and rue, containing; 
For Life and Love, within it meet, 

But Death awaits its draining. 

But yester-week, our crown of praise 
Was his, whom now we sorrow. 

To-night, 'tis I who win your bays:— 
Whose shall they be, to-morrow? 
(81) 



X)cab=5ca ^ruit. 



Between art's past and future years, 

I flit, too wise for gladness. 
Fame's Dead-Sea fruit, I cull with teara, 

And don its crown, with sadness! 

The famous boards I tread, to-night, 

Like shifting sands, but taunt me; 
Vibrating with the recent flight 

Of feet, whose echoes haunt me. 
The stage they fled, to grant me place, 

I hold for Life's brief tourney,— 
Then, other footsteps shall efface 

The imprint of my journey, 

I look behind, I look before,— 

Fame's garlands live forever: 
But, ah! From brows they wreath'd, of yore, 

Their faithless leaves dissever. 
The future, but repeats the past; 

And I, Fame's present sharer,— 
Am mocked by laurels, first and last, 

Whose crown survives its wearer! 

Then chide me not, for joyless thanks, 
Nor spurn their lacking measure.— 

My sob's mute eloquence outranks 
The rant of smiling Pleasure. 



VOii^ Boi^emta's tttaitg. 



1 love your love, I love your praise; 

And Love's pure tear, behooves them; 
Since, ah! It mourns within your bays, 

Death's cypress, that disproves them. 



Clmor Pincit. 



AMOR VINCIT. 

I love him, and he loves me! 
Vain to challenge Fate's decree; 
Vain to warn of social ban,— 
I am woman, he is man. 
Love has claimed us for his own. 
Who shall free us? Love, alone. 
Thus is writ our destiny,— 
I love him, and he loves me. 

O'er the lights, our glances met, 
Snared in Love's seductive net. 
Eyes, to eyes, flashed love at sight,- 
Love, that mingles bliss and blight. 
He, of proud, patri ian name, 
I, of garish foot-light fame, 
Peers are, loving equally!— 
I love him, and he loves me. 

Social laws, Love laughs to scorn; 
Social creeds, to shreds are torn^ 
Face to face with Nature's plan,— 
Eve for Adam, maid for man. 

m 



VOii\\ Bot]emia'5 IHana. 



I am Love's selective choice! 
His, is Love's resistless voice! 
Impotent as babes, are we,— 
I love him and he loves me. 

Grudge us not our hour of bliss, 
Brief, and sweet, as Love's first kiss. 
Ere, on lips, its flame is cool. 
Love grows wise, in Life's false school. 
Us, perchance, the Future parts; 
(He is Mammon's,— I am art's.) 
Love's, O, let the Present be!— 
I love him, and he loves me. 



m 



XPijcn an is Done." 



"WHEN ALL IS DONE/' 

Boys, help me forget a sad old line 

That is haunting my heart, to-night. 
Around with the weed! Uncork the wine! 

Let it flow till the morning-light. 
Your pledges are many,— mine but one : 

Here's the Stage, and my mistress. Art!— 
But, " WTiat is it all, when all is done F" 

Is the question that haunts my heart. 

You Philistines tliink an actor^s life 

Is all skittles, and flowing beer. 
Ah! Little you know the heart-sick strife 

Of a glorious stage-career. 
Glink glasses again! I yield to none, 

In my love for the art I toast;—- 
Yet, " W7iat is it all, when all is donCy'^ 

Haunts the bumper, like Banquo's ghost I 

The rdle may be great; but who would be 
The world's hero, for just an hour?— 

The laurels and bay are fair to see. 
But they fade like a hothouse flow'r. 
(86) 



VO'ii^ Boticmta's HTans. 



The glare of the lime-light mocks the sun, 
And the foot-lights are starry-bright t 

Yet, ** What is it all, when all is done^^^ 
But a will-o'-the-wisp of night? 

The viols and lutes are siren-sweet, 
And impassion the actor's roky 
As under his voice, they pulse and beat, 

With a pathos that thrills the soul. 
On Music's supernal wings alone, 

To the summit of art we soar,— 
But, " What is it all, when all is donCf'^ 
And the viols vibrate no more? 

The praise of the world, is sweet as brief;— 

And to hold a great house in hand. 
Attuning its heart to joy or grief, 

And its soul, to the high and grand,— 
To play on them both,— as plot is spun, 

Of smile, or of sob— en thralls I— 
Yet, " What is it all, when all is done,''^ 

And the ultimate curtain falls? 

Ah, boys! As the last act nears the end. 
And the spell of the stage has waned;— 

(Tho' hasty applause and cheers commend. 
If the drama has entertained,)— 
(87) 



"VOllcn an is Done* 



The heart of the actor, known to none, 
Turns as cold, as his eyes turn dim:— 

For " What is it all, when all is doneT^ 
Is the moral the play points him! 

The beauties that smile from box and stall, 

And our passions behind the stage. 
Allure and enslave,— until they pall; 

And we fritter our hearts, in gage. 
Love flutters beneath the lime-light's sun, 

But it dies, in a moth's brief span; 
So " What is it all, when all is done^^^ 

Since the actor but masks a man? 

Oj envy us not our mimic thrones. 

In our kingdom between the wings I 
You men with your wives and little ones, 

Are the real and only kings! 
The service of Art is shared with none, 

When we strive for her highest stakes, — 
Yet" What is it all, when all is done,^^ 

If the heart of the man, still aches? 

The wine round again,— a stirrup-cup; 

Then, away to your hearths' pure flame! 
The star that the artist renders up, 

For the rush-light of public Fame. 



VOitii Boticmta's ITIans. 



When all is attained,— his laurels won, 

With his niche in Art's marble dome,— 

Oh! " What is it all^ when all is done',' 

If its cost be the man's throne,— Home? 



presentiment. 



PRESENTIMENT. 

A year ago, your grave glance cross'd 

The foot-lights, shining 'twixt us two; 
Then, in the crowd, your face was lost. 

Yet I remembered you. i 

And when, this year, I caught again, ' 

The same grave glance of gentle power, — ] 

Presentiment, half-bliss, half-pain, j 

Foretold me of this hour. 



And tho' you vanished with the rest, j 

And left behind, no smile for me, i 

I knew, witliin my woman-breast, ■ 
The love that was to be! 

I knew that in predestined place, '\ 

Unsever'd by the lamps of art, ij 

We two would stand, thus, face to face, i 
And thus, too, heart to heart:— 

I knew our life-paths would converge, . 

United by the Hand above;— 

That I my woman-life would merge j 

Within your manhood^s love. \ 

m 



VOitli Bot^emia's Ittang. 



And if you ask me how, or why, 

Tho' lips may fail to answer you,— 

Surpassing your credulity. 

My heart repeats, *' I knew f^ — 

Knew you would come, or soon, or late, 
With despot-soul, and master-hand, 

And challenge me, — " lam your fate/ 
Surrender^ 1 command I " — 

Knew that to flee, would be in vain, 
And to defy you, vainer yet; 

That I, Love's draught to dregs, must drain, 
Whei^ein our lips had met. 

And tho' it be for loss or gain. 

For span of years, or span of breathj 

Tor ill or good, for joy or pain, 
Sweet Life, or bitter Death, — 

The fate decreed, I must fulfil. 

What honor, then, in futile strife? 
I yield to Love's resistless will. — 

Yes^ I will he your wife! 
(91) 



Ctjc (Sallers^Babfl. 



THE GALLERY-BABY.* 

I was bilPd for a recitation, 

And on mettle to do my best; 
For the beautiful Ellen Terry 

Was the manager's gracious guest. 
So, we actors were in our glory; 

And I swore, as my number came, 
That I'd rival the English Irving, 

In the Red, White, and Blue's dear name. 
With the house in the mood to listen, 

I was just in the mood to speak; 
And my voice rose and fell in accents 

Swelling, sinking, from strong to weak; 

Till a sob from the parquet answered, 

And a tear shone in Terry's eyei 
******* 

But my pathos was turned to bathos, 

By the gallery-baby's cry! 

With a glance in the imp's direction, 
On I went, with the tender verse. 

In the voice of a Rachel mourning;— 

(For I spoke Riley's sad ^^ White Hearse."— 

* James Whitcomb Riley's " Little White Hearse" should precede 
•' The GaUery-Baby," as a recitation. * 



VOit^ Bohemia's Utany. 



Classic ode of the jerking coal-man, 

And the stare of his smutted eye; 
And the driver who beat his shoulders, 

As he stopped to inspect the sky!)— 
"J.5 the liitk white hearsCj'^ I chanted, 

In a monotone wierd and wild,— 
With a smile for the angel Terry, 

And a frown for that demon-child:— 
"^5 the Utile white hearse went glimmer-^ 

Ol-gl — glim-mer-er er-ing hy^^^-^ 

****** 

Yelped the gallery-baby, shrilly, 

*^Ki-yi-yi! Ki-yi-yi! Hi! Hi! Hil" 

"J.5 the little white hearse^^^ I shouted. 

With a scowl at the fools who smiled;— 
(And a tear for the country-stranger. 

Wasting coins on the raggM child; 
And the boot-black's free-silver patron, 

Wlio was grateful,— ask Riley, why?)— 
" j.5 the little white hearse went glimmer — 

Ol-gl — glim-mer-er — er-ing by /" 
And again, from the house, responded 

Stifled sobs from some mother-heart;— 
And again, wept the tender Terry 

Just a woman, despite her art. 
(93) 



dt^c (Salleru^Baba. 



"^5 the little white hearse^'' I faltered, \ 

In a wailing and failing key,— j 

******* i 

Laughed the gallery-baby, gaily, : 

^^Te-he-ee! Te-he-ee! He! He! He!"- 

**J.« the little white hearse^'* I ranted,— \ 

With a heart for that youngster's hurt, — 
(And a sob for the man whose window 

Was bedimmed both by tears and dirt; — j 

For the murderous man, who panted, \ 

As the hearse went glimmering by, 
For a wife and a child inside it. 

On their way to the earth and sky!)— 
"J.5 the little white hearse^'' I quavered, — \ 

(Tho' I envied the jolly fate, ] 

Of a bachelor un tormented 

By a wife who would talk him straight, 
Whenever his dry heart thirsted — \ 

For a Riley w^ho kept a bar!) \ 

******* \ 

But the gallery-baby hooted, w 

'^Ah-ha-ha! Ah-ha-ha! Yah! Yah! Yah!" I 

*'^As the little white hearse^'' I thundered, i 

With a curse on that infant's head; 
And a thought of how dear I'd hold him, 

Even him,— were he only dead! 

(94) i 



tPtttj Boljcmia's ItXang. 



"J.5 the little white hearse,^^ I finished, 

With an eloquence sad and slow,— 
******** 

But the gallery-baby jeered it,— 

*^Oh-ho-ho! Oh-ho-ho! Ho! Ho! Ho! 

******* 

As I saw Terry's tear succeeded 

By a smile, not for me, but him;— 
I shook hands with the man still looking 

Thro* his tears, and his window dim.— 
For I wept, because Whitcomb Riley 

Had not ended his tender verse, 
With the gallery-baby's glimmer. 

Thro' the white of the little hearse! 



(96) 



passu. 



PASSEE 

My "sub" is cast for my rdles, you say.— 
My day is over, and I'm ^^pass'eeT 

"Pas5^,"— and banished, at twenty-odd. 

From boards the feet of my childhood, trod?— 

Absurd!— This illness has changed me, jqs\ 
But give a woman a chance to dress. 

With rouge^ and powder, and kohly and all, 
I'm still the beauty, of box and stall!— 

'^Passk V Since when?— Why, the night before 
My awful fall through the stage trap-door,— 

(I shudder still, as I feel, again, 

Its sudden, sickening, swooning pain—,) 

I scored a triumph; and made my bow, 
The Public's darling, as I am, now!— 

^^Passee f Who says so?— The man behind 
The box's curtain, who's dined, and wined 
(M) 



Wliii Boticmia's JXlani^, 



The gay sonbrette, and the ballet-girly 

And sneers, that *' Virtue's a wasted pearl?'* 

I knew it! He, and his millions, hold 
The manager in their snares of gold. 

And I defied him; while she was wise,— 
My ^ 'sub, ''—the girl with a baby's eyes! 

And this is honor! And this is art!— 
To make the drama a human mart, — 

And shut the door in the artist's face, 
While reckless Beauty usurps her place. 

Enough! My exit, I make in truth;— 

The curtain falls on the dreams of Youth,— 

Whose art was holy, whose men were pure,— 
Ideals all,— that do not endure! 

A nobler stage, by God's grace, awaits 

The actress spurned from art's laurelled gates. 

A stage, where woman may star in part 
That glows with roses, for hand and heart:— 

The highest part for a woman's life;— 
In Love's sweet drama,— the rdle of Wife! 

7 m 



0pcr tt|e XPinc ant> XVei:^, 



OVER THE WINE AND WEED 

Over the wine and weed, 
Sorrows of earth, recede:— 
Only the dream, is true, 
Visions of youth, renew; 
Art, is a goal divine; 
liove, is the gods' own winej— 
Life is at best, indeed. 
Over the wine and weed! 

Over the wine and weed. 
Truth, is the human creed; 
Hope is a bird of song; 

Passion is pure, as strong; 
Friends, are as true as steel; 
Kisses, are Faith's sweet seali 
Glory, is Honor's meed,— 
Over the wine and weed. 

Over the wine and weed, 
Efforts of art, succeed; 
Fame, is a thornless crown;— 
Merit commands renown; 
(98) 



rOitti Botjemta's ntanB." 



Life is a perfect thing; 
Death, but its spiril^wiug, 
Heavenward, man to speed,- 
Orer the wine and weed. 

Hail to the wine and weed! 
Sowing ideal seed, 
Rife with a fruitage fair, 
Over Life's desert bare. 
Men were a baser race, 
Shorn of Illusion's face- 
Glory of dream and deed, 
Over the wine and weed. 



(06) 



Clrraigneb. 



ARRAIGNED. 

You say, ''^ If we wed, you disown him^ — 
Your son makes no actress, his wifeF 
And he, as a cur lets one stone him, 

Submits, as you fashion his life? 
Enough! Our engagement is broken, — 

By him, or you, no;— but by me!— 
Return him this bauble, in token 

That I, whom he loves, am heart-free! 

Insult me with thanks, and I hold him. 

Beware! He is slave to me, too. 
I lift but my finger to mould him 

To bitterest vengeance on you. 
But, faugh! You both grovel beneath me, 

Too low, for my love, or my hate. 
Like queen in her ermine, I sheath me 

In scorn of your meaner estate. 

** You goT^ — No, not till I command you! 

You stay, till my last word be spoke! — 
The stage, as I now^ understand you, 

Elicits your scorn, with stage-folkl— 
(100) 



XOii\:i Botjcmia's ttlana. 



*^In courtesy, you beg to waive answer?'* 
Say frankly, you blush to reply!— 

Your Bigotry fails, as romancer, 
And falters, at Calumny's lie. 

The stone you would throw, were you bolder, 

I cast at the stage, in your name. 
Its title,— old, false, as its holder. 

Alliterates thus: ''Sin, and Shame!" 
Your silence consents?— You shall rue it!— 

Sin, Shame, stalk the stage, yes! And why? 
Because men like you, who pursue it. 

Pollute the pure art, you decry !j 

The men of the stage, are the woi'kers,— 

The artists, whose lives are real things. 
No place for Life's idlers, and shirkers, 

On stage, or in green-room, or wings! 
If all are not saints, but just human. 

At least, they are men of God's make; 
And not mere seducers of Woman, 

Or vampires of Man, for Gold's sake! 

Go, search your own world, for the sinners!— 
The rouh, profaning Love's name; 

Who lure, with their jewels and dinners, 
Stage-Beauty and Folly, to shame! 
(101) 



Clrratgneb. 



What part has the stage, in the story, 

Save that of the fane, whose god fails?— 

The boxes are Sin^s territory,— 

The stage, but the shrine it assails! 

And, even should here, there, one falter,— 

Are all to be stoned, for the few? 
Then, down with the puli3its that palter 

With Christ-shaming Christians, like you! 
The worst woman walking Sin's byways. 

Is grander of soul, before God, 
Than you, when you stoop from your highways, 

To smite her with Pharisee-rod! 

You dare to reproach her, you?— Father 

Of son who has Avooed me, for wife; 
And loses, tho' loving me, rather 

Than yield the false gods of his life. 
Society! Wealth!— Earth's brief bubbles, 

Held higher than Love's divine ruth, 
That heals life and death of their troubles, 

And hallows alike, age and youth!— 

Poor craven! I pity, and spare him; 

As victor, the coward who flees. 
But woe, to the hands that prepare him 

The chalice witk shame at its lees! 
(102) 



VOxtii Bot^emia's Kian^* 



The draught of Dishonor is bitter; 

And Love, when not nectar, is lye:— 
You hold him, for balm, the world's glitter.— 

Some day, he will curse you, and die! 

My prophecy haunts you? You love him.— 

False love, that has blasted his life! 
I tell you, 'twas in me to prove him 

A king among men, as his wife. 
Instead, to Dishonor's base mire. 

You hurl him, from Love's divine throne. 
Whoge name, then, is purer, and higher,— 

Your honorless son's,— or my own? 

The man, with his honor, has perished. 

The dastard who skulks in his stead, 
Fails all that your fatherhood cherished.— 

Already, you weep for your dead! 
Your anguish shall grow, with each morrow; 

The wrong that you sowed in your hate, 
Reaps tardy rem_orse, and vain sorrow t— 

Humanity's bitterest fate! 

Go now, for the drama is over; 

The curtain rung down, and all's done. 
You stand between woman and lover, 

Denying his wife, to your son. 
(103) 



CttaiQntb, 



Between us, God judge! Tho' man-shriven 

i^our peace dies, at Conscience's knell 1 
Already, the angels in heaven, 

Lament your soul's premature hell! 



<m 



tPtttj Bol]cmia's Utang. 



THE DYING ACTOR. 

"Dying?" No, boys, not dying! 

Take the word back. 
I am but weary; lying 

Down on Art's track, 
Just for the intermission, — 

Waiting my cue; 
Thrilling with old ambition, * 

Old, yes; and new. 
What if a fellow's down'd, boys, 

Just for a day! 
"Dying?"— Why, I'm Life-bound, boys; 

Cast for its play,— 
Billed for a score of seasons, 

Then, a score more. 
Death were the worst of treasons, 

Ere the play's o'er! 

Life is but just begun, boys. 

What is Man's youth? 
Dream of a race unwon, boys. 

Only; in truth.— 
(105) 



Ctje Dying Ctctor. 



Youngsters are out of fashion. 

Prime, holds the parts 
Brimming with bliss of passion,— 

Nature's, and Art's! 
Only last week, surrendered 

VAnge—io Love's flame. 
Only last night. Life tendered 

Laurels of Fame. 
''Dying?" No, boys, but living I 

(Wine,— for Life's cogs! 
Here's to sweet Life, boys; giving 

Death, to the dogs!) 

**Dying?" No, boys, not dying! 

Laugh at the priest,— 
Laugh at the doctor's lying i 

Here's to Life's feast. 
Glowing with love, and laughter, 

Fortune, and Fame;— 
Drowning Death's dark Hereafter ;- 

Lifis^ my toast's name!— 
Life, as a man and actor 

Plays it, in youth: 
Nature, its strongest factor, 

Art next, in truth.— 
(108) 



VOxili Boljcmia's Vflan^, 



(Actors are only human, 

Playing Life's part.— 
You know it, boys!— Wine, Woman^ 

Fortune^ and Art /) 

Dying, because a fire 

Flashed from the flies? 
Flaming to floor and spire, 

Dazing our eyes;— 
Starting a sudden terror 

Over the house: — 
(Proving Man's name an error,— 

Man's but a mouse!) 
Dying, because the Human 

Kept me from shame, — 
Dying, for child and woman, 

Blessing my name? 
******* 
So be it boys, if must be! 

Death might be worse.— 
Blessings are sweeter, trust me. 

Dying,— than curse! 

Leave me the priest, boys.— Exit! 

This is my scene.— 
* * * * * * * 
Father, I've sinned! Wliat recks it, 

Just what IVe been? 
(107) 



tEt^e D^xn^ Victor. 



Artist and man, you know us, 

Only too well,— 
Mocking, above, below us, 

Heaven, and hell! 
World, flesli, and devil, blind us, | 

This side Death's door:- ; 

Knowing the past, behind us. 

What lies before? 
Hero, am I, or varlet, 

Ending Life's play?- ^ 

Father, my sins are scarlet,- ^ 

Shrive them away! ] 

Back with the boys, now!- Stage them. 

Here, till the end!- 
^^True unto Death;' I wage them,- 

Rival and friend— j 

Sadly the righteous wrong them, I 

Shrinking apart; j 

Never a saint among them, \ 

Grander of heart! ^ 

Bless them all round, my Father,- . 

Blessing me, too,— ; 

(Me, 'round whose bed-they gather j- ^ 

Thaiik them,-and you!)- 1 

******* 1 

(108) \ 



VOiik Botiemia's ttlans. 



* 'Dying?" Yes, boys, I'm dying I- 
Yet, with last breath,— 

Life — is a play — defying — 
Curtain of Death / 



<m 



mXabcmoiselle Soubrctte. 



MADEMOISELLE SOUBRETTE 

A talisman I have, Monsieur, 

Resisting all your arts; 
Ensuring me a life-success 
In Virtue's steller parts; 
Inyincible, when men like you 
With tempting Love and Lucre, woo. 
You doubt me? Look, then! 'Tis no other, 
Than just this picture of my Mother. 

Four years ago, to-night. Monsieur^ 

I left her, for the stage. 
She loved home's quiet hearthstonet 

I, the Drama's work, and wage. 
I promised her,— (and keep my word, 
As you, with other men, have heard:) 
That, lacking husband, father, brother, 
My chevalier should be, my Mother. 

I do not lack for knights. Monsieur! 

Few women do, in truth. 
I lack a husband, yet, because 

Art rivals Love, in youth. 
(110) 



IDittj Bol^emia's IHana. 



I lack a lover, now and aye,— 
(To woo, and win, and ride away,)— 
Because my heart enshrines another, — 
My sweet, my pure, my faithful Mother, 

O'er fair young womanhood, Monsieur, 

A thovisand swords suspend 
A lover, ev'ry man would be; 

The stranger, with the friend. — 

I face, unf earful. Love's vast snare, 

By virtue of the pure white hair, 

The tender smile that dims all other, — 

The soft ^^God bless you^^^ of my Mother! 

I would not fail her faith, Monsieur; 

Nor summon, e'en by stealth, 
One blush, to burn her cheek and heart, 

For Fame, or Love, or Wealth. 

The blight of sin, the soil of shame. 

Shall never mock her honest name. 

No laurels lure, no kisses smother 

The love that keeps me true to Mother. 

Some day, some bitter day. Monsieur, 

Soubrette must stand alone; 
For sinners tarry on the earth. 

While saints are Heaven's own! 
(Ill) 



ntabemoiseUe Soubrettc, 



Who, then, shall arm me to withstand 
Your snaring heart, your tempting liand? 

Monsieur, I shall not need another;— 

^^ Forever faithful^'' is a Mother! 

In vain, the cruel grave, Monsieur, 

Love's loyal link would break. 
The Mother who has given life, 

In death, does not forsake. 
Alive or dead: in Heav'n, as here, 
My angel, still, shall hover near. 
Forever, she will be no other 
Than just my true, my loving Mother, 

Adieu, Monsieur! A thousand thanks 

For patience with my speech. 
Perchance, a lesson in it lurks. 

Your chivalry will teach.— 
When you, by woman, man, or child, 
Hear women of the stage, reviled,— 
Just say, ''^ An actress^ like another ^ 
Is sacred, for the sake of— Mother /^^ 



ai^ 



tDttt^ Botjcmta's HXlanj^. 



THE OLD ACTOR'S FAREWELL 

Just three-score years ago, to-night,— 

(Ye gods, to live them over!) 
I stood here in the horse-shoe's light, 

The Drama's youthful lover. 
The man has yielded youth to age, 

And brown hair, white replaces;— 
The actor's passion for the stage, 

Defies Time's ruthless traces. 

Man's mortal years are few and brief, 

The sands of life, run quickly; 
And Joy's bright rose, is thorned with grief; 

And tears hang laughter, thickly. 
Our dreams of idols, w^ake to clay; 

And even Love, bears sorrow: 
Yet, who would barter Life's To-day, 

For Death's unknown To-morrow? — 

Not I, not you! Yet all men must,— 
I, soon, perchance; you, later. 

Then, ere I share the common dust. 
That levels less and greater — 
8 (113) 



Ctie 01b actor's ^axmell 



Oh ! Let my heart j that is not old, 
Despite the flesh that mocks it,— 

Release farewells it may not hold, 
Since Lovers own key, unlocks it. 

Farewell, O Drama! Nature's truth,— 

By Art, reflected, surely;— 
A vision pure, to age and youth 

That gaze upon it purely! 
Who calls Art's temple, an ill school 

For Innocence to enter. 
Is written down, a knave or fool,— 

Foiil Falsehood's representer! 

If Sin, across the bright stage stalks, 

In robes the righteous grudge it, — 
Beside it, pure Repentance walks; 

Or Vengeance speeds, to judge it. 
Tho' Evil feign to vanquish Good, 

Good rallies, superhuman;— 
And Life's worst type of womanhood, 

The stage proves, still a woman! 

Farewell to them, whose mimic parts 
Win Fame's blent crown and fetter t 

Who master all the stage's arts,— 
(And mistress them far better!) 
(114) 



Witii Botiemta's ntana. 



Whose wage, O friends, no laurels pay, 
Tho* monarch be their donor:—- 

For, ah! The actor's proudest bay, 
Is just the man's crown,— Honor. 

Withhold it not, from them who serve 

The stage, in artist-fashion,— 
Because the frailer few may swerve, 

Misled by pelf, or passion. 
The many, wend the ways of Art 

Toward Heaven; not toward Hades! 
I say it from my actor's heart, — 

O gentlemen and ladies! 

For sixty years, I've faced you, here;— 

You, child, and man, and woman! 
For tho' the units disappear. 

The type's the same sweet Human. 
And each new day, and each new night, 

Has turned your fond abettor. 
To make of me,— (Art's humblest wight,)- 

The Public's deeper debtor. 

To thank you, werfe a poor return; 

To love you, is a meeter; 
To leave you, but a thought to spurn, 

Since Death itself, were sweeter! 
(115) 



Clie 01b actor's ^JareroelL 



Yet, here, to-night, I say farewell;- 

The stage and I, must sever; 
The Drama tolls my exit-bell,— 

My part is played, forever! 

I bless you, for your flowing tears; 

Without them, mine were lonely. 
They crown the brow bent low with years, 

That once, wore laurels only. 
By their sweet grace, one boon I crave, 

Wherein your hearts abet mei— 
It iSy— till parted by the grave, 
77iat you will not forget me! 

Strange feet will tread these dear old boards; 

New faces smile upon you. 
Across the footlights, and the chords 

Whose harmonies have won you. 
The parts I've loved, and played so long, 

Will be a stranger's dower:— 
Your laurels, 'round his Youth, will throng; 

Grant Age, your Mem'ry's flower! 

The curtain falls r the play is done; 

And Art's sweet rdh, is ended. 
The footlights shine their last, upon 

The actor you've befriended. 
(116) 



IPtttj Bolicmta's tTTang. 



My sob must be my mute farewell 
To you,— -the word, forgiving, 

Whose minors toll the ruthless knell 
Of all my life, worth living! 



aiT) 



dti's 3rottg. 



ART'S IRONY. 

The Gomedy-clown laughs merrily,— 
Right merrily laughs he! 
Says the world,— ^^Eis art 
Makes a careless heart — 
A happy man is he I " 

To lift his mask, is c. painful task:— 

We shudder, as we see. 
Beneath his laughter, and prank, and jest, 
A cancer's fangs in his tortured breast. 

The Tragedy-queen weeps mournfully,— 
Right mournfully, weeps she! 
Says the world,— ^'Her heart 
Is her hey to art, — 
A sorrow sad^ hath she / " 

To lift her mask, is a pleasant task; 

For underneath, we see 
A bliss as bright as the stars above,— 
The perfect bliss of a woman's love! 
(118) 



3nterlube5» 



3nterlubcs. 



BETWEEN THE ACTS. 

Between the acts, 
Upon the stage, the play suspends, — 
The curtain, on its scenes, descends: 
The actors flit beyond our view, 
The viols start their strains anew. 
A sudden light the dark house fills, 
A murmur thro' the silence thrills; 
The interlude assumes its sway,— 
And then begins the human play. 

Between the acts, 
The aisles vibrate with passing feet: 
In foyo* J men and women meet. 
The boxes ring with laughter light, 
As greetings blend, and hands unite. ^ 
Parquet and circle, bow and smile: / 
The balconies discuss the style: 
The '^gods'' look on, with ruthless eye, \ 
And jeer, and cheer; applaud, and guy. 

Between the acts, 
A comedy, Life's play appears.— 
But, ab! Beneath its laugh, one hears 



Betoeen tlje C^cts. 



The deeper chords of soul and heart, i 

That mock the glees of Folly's part. \ 
The drama stills them, for its span,— 

But woman lives not,— nay, nor man, "^ 

"With soul unhaunted by the strain J 

Of Life's blent key-notes, Love, and Pain! i 

Between the acts, ' 

The stage's spell still sways the heart. ' 
The Real retreats; ideals start 

Like tender dreams, our souls witliin; ; 

And Art and Nature, seem akin. J 
Our loves and passions, pulse anew; 
Lost visions flit again in view; 

Ambitions kindle. Faith revives, j 

And Fancy wings our stolid lives. ; 



Between the acts. 
The spirit mocks the breast's control, 
And soul responds to kindred soul. 
The man discards his actor-part. 
The maid betrays her woman-heart. 
Convention trembles in the scales. 
The cant of social ethics fails; 
And Life avows the thing it is,— 
Alloy of sweet humanities! 
(12^ 



3ntcrlubes. 



Between the acts, 
Oh! Is it well, or is it ill. 
That we relax our narrow will. 
And drift, we know not how, or whence, 
On wings of blended soul and sense?— 
Nay, let us drift without a fear, 
To Ideality's pure sphere! 
The soul rejects its right of birth, 
That never soars from sordid earth. 

Between the acts. 
Who at the senses' cup, demurs,— 
With him who drinks too deeply, errs. 
The Beautiful is never base,— 
No evil mars its perfect face: 
Who stops at sense, stops just haK-way 
Beneath Art's goal, that crowns the play! 
The purest, highest souls, convene 
Excess and abstinence, between. 

Between the acts. 
Then quaff of Life's ideal wine. 
Whose draughts debase not, but refine. 
The sateless thirst its lees inspire, 
Are presage of divine desire. 
O false! O narrow! To defame 
Art's glowing spell, in Virtue's name.— 
Blind bigots they, who dare gainsay 
God's Omnipresence, in the playl 
(128) 



Sercnabe. 



SERENADE 

We dream of gifts the gods deny us, 

Of goals our feet pursue in vain; 
While Youth, and Love,— sweet Love,— flee by us. 

On wdngs that turn not back again! 
Too late, we wake from dreams ideal,^ 

One dream has fled beyond recall; 
The heart-dream, true, and pure, and real, 

The Love-dream, sweetest dream of all. 

Only one dream is sweet, dear. 

Only one dream is true; 
Who shall dream it with me, dear? 

Who shall dream it with you? 
,Dream my heart is a nest, dear,— 

Dream your heart is a dove: 
Life is sweetest and best, dear. 

Dreaming the dream of Love. 

Oh! Naught are Gold, and Fame, and Pleasure, 
But mocking phantoms, pale and chill! 

Tho' hands overflow with their bright treasure. 
The loveless heart is empty still. 



(124) ^ 

i 



3ttterlubcs. 



One dream alone shall ever fill it,— 

The dream that stands, tho^ all dreams fall. 

Nor Life, nor Death, shall wake or kill it,— 
The Love-dream, sweetest dream of all. 

Then mourn not, tho' they pass our portal,— 

Tlie dreams that hold not Love's red wine; 
For Love's dream only, is immortal; 

And Love's dream only, is divine. 
Exult, O hearts, whom Love is given! 

Ye vanquish Death, and grave, and pall: 
For Love is not of earth, but Heaven; 

And Love's dream dreams beyond them all. 



(125) 



Htoate. 



RIVALS. 

A SKETCH IN ITALICS. 

Dramatis Personm : 

A Stage-Star. ) i?v.,^t„ 
ASodalBelle. P*^'*' 
Jack, tlie ImefT. 

Belle, 
*'Is<Aa« your Star?'' 

Star, 
*^Is^Awj your Belle?' 

Belle, 
'Tresenther!" 

Star, 
^'Introduce a fell'!" 

Jack. 

^'Well! Pm cut out, where you two, are.- 
Miss Belle, permit me;— Mam'selle Star!" 

BeUe, 
'^>Sb pleased"- 

SUxr. 
'^So j^rowc^"— 

Bo^. 

^*To meet you here; 
I've pined an age, to know you, dear!" 
(126) 



^rc^xio^es* 



Jaxk^ (aside.) 
Who says that women can't be friends?— 
I'll go and smoke, till spooning ends. 

{Ea:it Jack) 

Belle, (aside.) 
(My rival? No! He'll never wed 
An actress with a blonded head.) 

Star, (aside.) 
(My rival ! PoufI She's quita a wreck. 
Gone off, poor thing, about the neck!) 

BelU. 
**IVe long admired you, on the stage,"— 

Star. 
"As I, you, off ;— 

Belle, (aside.) 
(Now, what's her age? 
She can't be young.) 

Star, (aside.) 

(If she's a day, 
She's thirty-odd, and quite pass'ee I) 

BeUe, 
"My dear, I've heard"— 

Star, 
"Oh! iVe heard, too,"— 
(12t) 



Htpals, 



Belle. 
*'Such charming'*— 

Star. 

* 'Stunning*'— 
BotJi. 

'^Thingsof you!'* 

Belk. 
'Trom dear'*— 

Star. 
(She calls him, ''dear**!)-' 'Jack Drew?*' 

Belle. 
(She calls him, "Jack!**)-"From Mr.-who?*' 

Star. 
(Stuck-up old maid! i*ll set her back!)— 

"/'ve notes about you^ such a stack T^ 

****** ^:- * 
[Ihat lets her know, he writes to me!) 

Belle. 
"And /, of you, have,— let me see,— 
Quite twenty photographs^ I think I '* 

******** 

(That lets her see how much he dotes 
On her old face, in spite of "notes!") 
(128) 



3ntcrlubes. 



Siar^ (aside.) 
(He gives my photographs, to her f) 

Belle, 
(He writes her, * 'stacks?^ ')- 

^'How sweet you were, 
To give my Jack your miniature!— 
(I'd never know 'twas you, I'm sure!") 

Star, 
"Not half so sweet as you^ ma chere,— 
Who gave my Jack, a lock of hair!"— 

Belle. 
"Ah, yes! My hair boasts Natwre's glint!"— 

Star. 
"Which Jack pronounces— dull of tintl" 

BelU. 
"Can't say as much for your cheeks, dear; 
They're bright a^— paint I " 

Star. 

"I almost fear 
My blushes do shame yours', to-night.— 
At your age, never wear pure white!" 

Belle. 

"Oh, Ihanks!^ Why, really, you're so kind,''- 

(129) 



Star, 
"You're welcome!*' 

Belle. 
"That IVe hal/si mind 
To kiss you: but I'm fearful, dear. 
That your lips' rose, might disappear 1" 

Star. 

"Oh, no, indeed! It's quite kiss-proof. 
Ask Jack/" — 

BeUe. 

(He's kissed her!)— 

(I^-enter Jack.) 

Jackf {aside.) 

(How aloof 
The rivals look. What's up? I vow, 
Two jealous women, in a row! 
The deuce! I thought they'd be such friends.— 
I'll listen, till the duel ends.) 

Star, 
"i must be going." 

BeUe. 
"So must i." 

Both. 

''So glad I met you, dear. Oood-hj ♦'* 

Star, 
''Where's Jack?" 

(130) 



Zntetlnhes, 



Belle. 
^'Where's Jackr* 

Jack^ {aside.) 

(Gome! Here's a hole! 
I love them both, upon my soul. 
Hang wor n! Can't they share a lover?) 

Star. 
"Jack!" 

Bell<!, 

Both. 



Jack^ (aside,) 
(D— n! m throw both, over!) 



(131) 



"JACK!" 



Stages Ctjilbtcrt. 



STAGE-CHILDREN. 

They flutter from the stagers wings— 

In Youth's appealing beauty; 
One trips a dance: another, sings; 

Rejoicing in their duty. 
The house is spell-bound with delight, 

The actors, too, applaud them; 
They win the laurels of the night, 

And morning-critics laud them. 

They hold the world in their small hands, 

Its heart is in their keeping. 
Their laughter, not a churl withstands,— 

And who resists their weeping? 
They charm, alike, both youth and age, 

By childish gifts, and graces; 
And ''Stars" shine vainly, on the stage 

That shrines their sunny faces. 

The stage-boards are the purer things, 
Because their small feet tread them. 

Their white souls float on unseen mngs. 
And Sin, and Folly, dread them. 
(132) 



3ntcrlubes. 



If vice profane the air they breathe, 
Its shadow shudders past them,— 

And lilies weave the only wreath 
That men and women cast them. 

They look not on the cruel world 

That poverty shows others; 
They see not Labor's flag unfurl'd 

O'er starving babes and mothers. 
The gold that fills their little hands, 

Is lavish in its measure; 
And truth records it, as it stands,— 

The wage of perfect pleasure! 

Contrast them, in the lives they lead, 

With children of the masses. 
Whose puny palms, from labor bleed; 

Whose hearts accurse the classes: 
Whose feet are weary in their youth, 

Whose eyes are dim for slumber,— 
And answer, is it well, in truth, 

That more should swell their number? 

The children of the stage, are trained 
In health, and grace, and beauty; 

While Innocence treads, unprofaned, 
Art's honest boards of Duty, 
(133) 



5tage=(£l^ilbrctt. 



Ambitions sown in childish souls, 

Develop, as youth ages; I 

And spur them to artistic goals, 

Replete with Honor's wages. i 

Then force not childish feet away 

From path they fain would follow; 
For youth that toils, yet earns not play, ' 

Turns evil, in its sorrow. 
Repine not at their tender age, j 

By Art's bright joys, made merry. 
Oh! Leave the children, to the stage,— 

We pray you, Mr. Gerry I I 



(184) 



XOittt SoI?emia's ^cw. 



VOit^ Boljemia's ^Jen?. 



SANS SOUCl. 

Wine, first! Song and Woman, come after,— 

Wise Woman, who loves for a week; 
Pour passer le temps^ or for laughter,— 

In vanity, ennuis or pique. 
Fidelity surfeits Love's rapture,— 

Man tramples the heart at his feet; 
He hungers the hunt, not the capture, 

And follows the prey that is fleet! 

Here's Health, to all lovers who venture, 

And Luck, to the dies that they cast; 
Defeat, to the world and its censure, 

And Death, to the loves that are past! 
And here's Cleopatra, of story; 

Whose daughters, in Love's goblet, hurl 
The gem that is womanhood's glory. 

And drain the draught drowning their pearl. 

Fill up! Drink and drain, and be merry! 

Who knows if he wakes with the mom, 
To love, or to hate; bear, or bury?— 

To-morrow may perish, imbom. 
(137) 



Sans Soucl 



To live, is to drain, while it glitters, ■ 

Tlie wine of To-day, at the lip; j 

The Past is a dreg that imbitters,— ^ 

The Future, a cup that may slip. ^ 

i 
Then clutch Love's red dirk by the handle, 

Defying the death in its blade! ] 
The game may be less than the candle. 

But who knows its worth, till it's play'd? j 

The world is well lost, while Love thralls us; ^ 

To-night, we can laugh at its sting. ; 

To-morrow, Satiety palls us,— \ 

But till the King dies, '^Live the KingT^ \ 



aas) 



VOitk 23ol)cmia's ^evo. 



THE DANCER. 

WJiirlj whirl^ whirl! 
Till my brain is a zone of fire; 

Till the floor upheaves 

To the sinking eaves, 
And the stage is a flaming pyre. 

Twirl, twirl, twirl! 
Till the world, with my senses, reels; 

And the surging blood 

Of my womanhood, 
Whirs with me, like molten wheels.in 

Sway, and swing! 

Till a reed is less lithe than I,— 

With the poise and pose 

Of a lissom rose, 

And the veering wind's pliancy. 

SIcim, and sjpHng^—r 
With voluptuous human grace; 
And a serpent's art, 
And a siren's heart. 
And a woman's alluring face. 
(139) 



Ct^c Dancer. 



iSmile, smile, smile / 
Lest my shuddering lips betray 
By a moan's brief breath, 
That I dance with Death, 
As I pirouette Life away.— 

Wile, beguile 
Moths of men, to my beauty's flame! 
Tho' my soul despise 
The soft sorceries, 
That are pledges of woman's Fame. 

Bitter-sweet, 
Is the life of the dancing-girl. 

Yet I would not give 

A pas seul, to live 
Off the boards of the Dance's whirl. 

For my feet 
Love the dust of the halkt^singe] 

And my rapt soul SAVOons 

In the viol's tunes. 
And the Dance is my heritage. 

For the one 
Who was mother of me, in flesh,— 
In the ballet's whirl 
Was a dancing-girl, 
With her soul in the Dance's mesh. 
And there rim 
(140) 



VOiili Bot^emta's ^em. 



In my veins, red rivers of fire, 
That the Dance must feed, 
Or their burning greed 

Sears my life, with its mad desirel 

Whirl, whirl, whirl/ 
So, the fate of me I fulfil. 

If the Philistine 

Draws the social line 
At Terpsichore's child,— what ill? 

Twirl, twirl, twirl/ 
Is the world any worse for grace?— 

What is Motion's art. 

But the counterpart 
Of the Music, its rhythms embrace? 

Play, then, play! 
O, ye viols that thrill my heart! 

O, ye sweet, ye strong! 

Whose impassioned song 
Is the life of my rhythmic art! 

Whirl / Bend / Sway / — 
Oh! The rapture, the spell, the trance, 

Of the dancer's soul, 

Whose ideal goal 
Is the sinuous, swirling Dance! 

(141) 



dn (DU> (Someby. 



AN OLD COMEDY. 
Act I. 

{In Mademoiselle^ s Dressing- Boom,) 

Vm late! 

A note?— Its style invites; 
But tempt me not,— till I^m in tights. 
Where's my make-up, rouge, wig, and all?— 
(Diahh, what a previous call! 
The overture's not half-way thro'.— 
Ouiy ready!) 

Quick,— my billet doux /— 
From Charlie? Nan /—Its sweetness smacks 
Of priceless scents poor Charlie lacks.— 
A coat-of-arms, and autographed: 
Young Innocence, or agM Craft!— 
^^ Adores me! I am his ideal I 
Implores to prove his passion r^eal. * * 
Stage-box, to-night. -^ * Presumes to pray 
III honor his petit souper,^^ — 
(US) 



IPitt} Boticmia's ^tw. 



(But yes ! J^aifaim!) 

There goes my cuel'— 
{From the wings,) 
Monsieur Adorer, liere's to yon! 



AOTIl. 

(On the Stage.) 

A swagger swell; a blase blond; 
Patrician, beau, — Monsieur du mondef — 
Not young, not old; at man's mid-years. 
That start,— and scorn,— a woman's tears. 

* * I smile : * * 

OieU His eyes respond;— 
He has a heart, this man, aufond. 
I'll probe it to its worst or best,— 
Ignite its fire, and dare the rest. 

* * I dance. * * 

His eyes pursue like flames. 
That scorch me with forgotten shames. 

* ■* I shrink, * * I suffer, '* * 

Stay, sweet pain! 
I would not back to peace, again.— 
New consciousness of womanhood, — 
New depths of bad, new heights of good,— 
New hells below, new heav'ns above,— 
Hive * '* I die * * 

Mon Diev^ I love! 

(143) 



Ctn 01b Comebij. 



ACT III. 

-1 
{In Mademoiselles Boudoir.) 

One year ago, Monsieur, we met. 

To-night, we part; and you forget. 

On me alone, Love leaves its trace,— 1 

Your diamonds in my white pearl's place. \ 

My loss, or youi^s? Your gain, or mine?— ■ 

Hush! Drown your answer, in my wine. 

Clink glasses to Veuve Cliquois cheer,— ; 

My toast? ^^Man^s love, that lives — a yearJ'' 



On dit^ that Monsieur marries, soon. 

'^Next month?"— We share its honeymoon!— 

But yes. Monsieur, it is quite true. 

I wed!— Why not, as well as you? 

*^ A new love?'' Non! ^^ An old love?" Otdt 

A woman's heart reverts, you see. 

Ah, Charlie!— Just in time, to hear 
Monsieur's congratulations, dear! 
(144) 



rOitt^ 3ot^emta'5 ^m. 



A FALLEN ANGEL. 

**By judgment of God/' says the preacher I 

*'By accident;''— says the world. 
The foothold just failed to reach her; 

In mid-air, she swung and twirled,— 
So certain that they would save her, 

She scorned to betray her fear; 
And smiled, as the thrilled house gave her 

A vibrant, resounding cheer! 
Her vis-a-vis angel wavered, 

And swooned, as she made her slip:— 
The ballet beneath her, quavered; 

And warned her to ''keep her grip.'' 
In helpless suspense and wonder. 

She dangled, with bated breath.— 
The slender rope strained asunder. 

And hurled her to sudden death! 

"By judgment of God?"— Christ forbid it! 

An ''accident," let it be,— 
This death, with no prayer to rid it 

Of Life's infideUty! 

(145) 



CI fallen Clngcl. 



O, publicans who ablior lier,— ■ 

So young, and surpassing fair, 
Let beauty and youth plead for her, 

Whose innocence was her snare! 

None warned her of wiles of evil; i 

She went her unheeding way, ^ 

So lovely, that man and devil ] 

United, to lure astray,— | 

So reckless, she laughed in winning \ 

The laurels that crowned her shame,— ] 

So ignorant in the sinning, ' 

She knew not her sin's sad name! ; 



Behold the man, throned in his box, there, 

A man of the world, and tired 
Of all that his gold unlocks, there, 

Of sensuous sweets desired. 
He knew the dead girl. Observe him!— 

His shuddering lips betray 
Repentance whose throes unnerve him, 

In sight of her lifeless clay. 
The look that her blue eyes flashed him, 

An instant before her slip, 
Already has stung and lashed him. 

With Conscience's vengeful whip. 
Her eyes, in their haunting glitter. 

Shall madden his dying breath.— 
The libertine's cup is bitter,— 

*'The wages of sin is death!" 
(146) 



tPttii Botjemta's ^ew. 



Away from his presence profaning, 

Away from the Public's stare,— 
From hands whose caress is staining, 

And foot-lights' distorting glare:— 
Afar from the scenes unholy, 

"Whose tinsel was snare for her,— 
The beautiful dead, bear slowly, 

With murmur of prayer, for her! 
The rouge on her white cheeks, mocks her; 

The paint burns her lips, like flame; 
Her nudeness disturbs and shocks her. 

Since Death has revealed Life's shame: 
Her mimical wings deride her,— 

They trail, and retard her flight. 
Unfasten them, then; and hide her,— 

The dead, in her gauds,— from sight! 

It matters not whither we bear her, 

None claim her to love and mourn. 
But yonder white church will spare her 

A niche in its sinners' bourn. 
Her feet, lead within its portal; 

Her hands, fold across her breast. 
The peace that is more than mortal, 

Abides here, and bids her rest!— 
" In pace /" 

Rise, now; and take her 

Wherever her home may be! 
The journey will not awake her,— 

She slumbers eternally. 
(147) 



CL ^Ilcn angel 



**By judgment of God?"- 

Nay, rather. 
By Father-love's wise decree!— 

Thy judgments reserve^ Father^ 
Forjudgers of smh as she I 



a4Q 



lOitt) Bot^emta's ^cu). 



A LIVING PICTURE 

I am a Living Picture, nude, in the name of 
Art! 

Womanhood, youth, and beauty, soul, and defi- 
ant heart. 

Flaunting the Scarlet Letter,— branded, at Life's 
fair start. 

*'Who is the man that did it?'' He, whom she 

plights, to-night,— 
(She, in the box, there, shrinking back from my 

shameful sight;)— 
Troth, that may be his blessing; troth, that must 

be her blight. 

Sisters, we are, as women; sisters, that girl and 

I!- 
She, whom the vestal lilies envy, as she gleams 

by: 
I, whom the passion-flowers, blush, but to bios- 

som nigh. 

iU9) 



d £tr)tng picture. 



I am a Living Picture, nude, in the name of 
Art. 

What Avas I, ere I yielded all of me, with my 
heart?— 

Look on his future bride, there. I was her coun- 
terpart. 

Something forbids you doubt me. Such is 
Truth's spell divine.— 

I was her peer, I tell you, back in Youth's vir- 
gin shrine, 

Ere the white milk of Virtue, blushed to Love's 
crimson wine. 

He, whom we share between us, mine is, in flesh 

and blood : 
Her's, are his name, and honor; fetishes, she 

calls good.— 
^ 'Whose is his heart?" He has none. Hearts 

are for womanhood! 

''Hate her?" For what? Her mocking, titular 
wifehood's rdlef— 

She gives the spirit's bounty,— he, but the let- 
ter's dole. 

''Hate her?" God! No, I pity,— pity her from 
my soul! 

(150) 



VO'till Bol^cmia's ^cw. 



Sinner, or saint, of woman, Love makes; if 

Love at alL 
Saint, I can scarce proclaim me, posing in 

Pleasure's hall. 
Nude, but for gems and roses, ^^ Queen of Love's 

Carnival/^* 

Sinner, then, Love convicts me; who, were elec- 
tion free, 

Would not reverse our titles, gaining her sanctity. 

No, for he does not love her! No, for he does 
love me! — 

Such is the love of woman; single, yet vast in 

groove! 
Knowing beyond it, nothing ;~nothing below, 

above: — 
Heaven, and Earth, and Hades, all, in her 

human love! 

See, that your soul takes warning; see, that 

your heart takes heed r— 
You, who are man and master, idol of some 

girl's creed,— 
What you are dealing to her, tested by her 

soul's need! 

(151) 



a £it)tng picture. 



God is the woman's Maker. When she is marr'd 

by men, 
Think not, they stand forth scathless, cheating 

the Father's ken! 
God deals the man the measure, man deals the 

Magdalen. 

Good! Shrink away, and shudder; mourning 

your guilty heart! 
Slow, is God's retribution. You have been 

warned. Depart!— 

T^ v|C ^ T^ tJC ^ ^ i(c ^(P 

I am a Living Picture, nude, in the name of 
Art! 



(152) 



IPitti Botiemta'5 ^Jcu). 



A STAGE-MAGDALEN. 

Eight chimes from the clock in the steeple.— 

The green-room is crowded, and gay; 
The orchestra lilts, and the people 

File happily in, for the play. 
The scenes set their bright diorama, 

The foot-lights flash up; the bell rings i— 
While, here, lies the Star of the Drama.— 

A '^sub^' waits my cue, in the wings. 

I swore I would last out the season, 

And prove Life, the vassal of Art; 
Defying Death's premature treason, 

In spite of my traitorous heart. 
But Fate is no chivalrous foeman, 

To honor a feminine glove! 
I die like a dog,— and a woman,— 

Denuded of laurels and love! 

Is this the end, this, of my part, here,— 

A bed in a hospital- ward! 
Wliy, Nurse, IVe been Queen of my Art, here; 

By princes and people, ador'd. 
(153) 



CI Stagesiriagbalert. 



My beauty, my genius, my passions, j 

Have thrilled the cold heart of the age; i 

Vve swayed the elite, and its fashions, ] 

And humbled the box, to the stage ! \ 

Is this my fate, mine,— whose life-story ^ 

Should read like a queen's, to the last? 

Alas, for my beauty^s lost glory,— ! 

Alas, for the loves of the past! j 

(The screen round my bed, please!— I'm fated c 

To die off the stage, so I will.) \ 
Ha! Ha! Wliat tho' Life's abdicated, 

Since Death is my follower, still?— ; 

How drear, are Life's flickering embers!— ' 

I'm fearful, Nurse.— Give me your hand.— : 

4it -»**** * j 
I wonder if Mother remembers 

Her child, in her pure spirit-land! i 

Poor Mother!— Wliy, what am I saying? ] 

I've not thought of Mother, for years.— ^i 
She died, as she lived; weeping, praying, * i 

For me, who defied prayers, and tears! ! 

And John,— my first lover, who died, too,— j 

His love for me, breaking his heart, \ 

When I fled away, to be bride to ^ 

No man, but my sexless love, Art! ] 

a54) 1 



VO'xtk Botiemia's ;$en). 



Ah, John! If I'd only been loyal 

To you, or the Stage, all were well! 

But no! On the boards of the ''Royal,'' 
Art yielded to heart, and I fell. 

The old story. Nurse!— How I loved him,— 

The man who first led me astray! 
But time,— and a new face,— disproved him, 

And tempted his false heart away. 
Before, I was honest; but after, 

I drained, as they fell to my part. 
Life's goblets of passion and laughter. 

To drown the mad pain of my heart. 



Is that some one standing beside me? 

No! Only a shadow of night!— 
Of all who have loved, none to hide me 

Away from Death's pitiless sight! 
I'm dying alone, here,— yes, dying; 

With not one, to kiss me good-by!— 
Wliy, Nurse, good old Nurse, are you crying? 

One mourner, at least, as I die! 

My voice fails me. Nurse!— Can you hear me?- 
Bend low,— I would whisper a word. 

Another world, somehow, seems near to we, 
Beyond this, wherein I have err'' d; 
a55) 



a Stage^nXagbalcn. 



A world, where poor sinners play over 
The parts that their human sins mar; 

And I, even 7j may recover 

Lost laurels of woman^ and Star I 

Who threatens a hell, for Life's sinners?— 

Why, Nurse, sin is punished, right here. 
I warn Vice's heedless beginnei's, 

That hell is this side of the bier. 
My punishment,— you. Nurse, who see it, 

Say, what after-hell could be worse? 
A death-bed, denied Love, to free it 

From Solitude's desolate curse I 

Good daughtei^s, to mother-arms yield them,— 

Good wives, on their husbands' hearts, lean; 
Good mothei'S, have children to shield them 

Young arms, and warm bosoms, between. 
But / have not one to caress me, 

Of all who adored, to the end. 
No mother, to fondle and bless me, 

No husband, no children, no friend! 

I tell you. Nurse, sin has not paid me; 

And, therefore, I am not afraid 
To face the Immortal Who made me 

For holier ways, whence I've stray'd! 
(156) 



tPttlj Botjcmia's ^ei». 



He knows the temptation that beckoned,— 
Th« weakness that yielded, to sin; 

And, if Heaven is, He has reckoned 
That sinners shall find a way in. 



'^The Chaplain?'^ No, Nurse! I am nearer 

The Truth, than he is, by Death's length. 
''The Doctor?"- Alas! That none dearer 

Watch out the ebb-tide of my strength! 
No; you, alone, Nurse, stay beside me. 

Till Death has sped by, hushed and veiled. 
Fulfilling his mission— to guide me— 

Afar— from Life's stage— I have failed! 



So dark,— and so cold,— and so lonely,— 

So still,— that the hush— oscillates. 
My God! Must I die?-Ah! If only 

One kiss— sped me forth— from Life's gates! 
O Christ of the Magdalen! Shrive me— 
Of failure— I've made of Life's rdle.— 
******* 
John! Mother! —You love,— and forgive me?- 
******* 
Tlien Christ— rejects not— my poor soul! 
(157) 



Houge et tXo'it. 



ROUGE ET NOIR. 

Rouge et Noir, was tlie game. — 

(Played not only in France, 
But all the world over, at tables of chance.) 
You know it?— You stake on the Red, or the 

Black, 
And round the wheel whirls, in its bright 

zodiac:— 
Whirls faster and faster, until your brain reels, 
And dazed eyes see whirling, a hundred mad 

wheels!— 
It slows,- and your pulses slow with it, until 
It stops; — and your quivering heart, too, is still. 
The voice of the croupier^ then, cracked and 

hoarse. 
Cries, "Bedwins,^^ or '^ Black wins T^ —You play 

on, perforce: — 
Fair Fortune smiles on you, — you win! — Or 

her prank. 
Rakes winnings, stakes, everything,— into the 

bank. 

(158) 



XPitlj Boljemia's ^cm. 



I staked on the Reel,— won! Re-staked,— luck 

the same.— - 
My friend lost on Black,— 

{Bouge ei Noir, was the game.) 

{Rouge et Noir, was the game.) 

Said my friend, '^ Play! The name 
Of sweet stake the second, is glorious FAME." 
(His eyes were live embers, whence sudden 

sparks flew. 
As stars at night kindle, and flash, the dark 

thro'.)— 
"Gold, good is; Fame better. The laurels it 

wears. 
Are only the husks of the harvest it bears. 
The World yields its sceptre, Fame's glory be- 

forei— 
Men hold it their homage : fair women adore. ■ 
All dreams dear to mortals. Fame's promise, 

transcends; 
Dreams, wake with the dreamer,— Fame, fades 

not, nor ends!"— 
"Enough!" I cried, wildly. "I win, or I die!" 
(The croupier, ~^' Bouge ou Noir?^^) "Red!" 

shouted I. 

(159) 



Houge et ttotr. 



On Black, my friend wagered.— The wheel 

tiu^ned for Fame.— 
{Noir^ — i?OM^e/)— Fame was mine I— 

(Rouge et Noir, was the game.) 

(Rouge et Noir, was the game.) 

Said my friend, ^^Stake the third, 
Men live for, and die for, at Woman's soft word. 
The gods' bank is broken, if winner you prove, 
Of Man's supreme Passion, by women called 

LOVE!" 
(His eyes read my secret.) ''Sweet Passion," 

he cried! 
(I thought of Dolore', midnight-haired, starry- 
eyed;— 
Dolore', in whose bosom's soft swell, her throat 

dips. 
Like white bird o'erwhelmed by the wine of 

her lips.) 
*'For Love," urged my friend; ''than Q-old 

sweeter, or Fame!" 
^^ Dolore' s loveP^ I cried; (and began the third 

game. 
For you, O Dolore', and your passionate kiss!)— 
("i^ow^e.^— iVbiV.?")-"Red," I answered, "as lip 

of love, is!"— 

(160) 



VOitk Botiemia's ^erv. 



**Red wins!'' said my friend.— From his eyes, 

flashed a flame. 
( You kissed me, Dolore /) 

[Rouge et Nbtr, was the game.) 

{Rouge et Nbir, was the game.) 

Said my friend, ^ 'Death awaits,— 
Dark Death, the despoiler, at Life's open gates; 
From hand, brow and bosom, their sweet gains, 

to wrest.—- 
For LIFE, then, a fourth game,— the last stake, 

and best!" — 
(His eyes were deep caverns, with red fires, 

a-flame.) 
"The wheel waits,'' he thundered. "Then on, 

with the game! 
The price of beginning, you pay at the end. — 
Revenge, on the Red, is Black's due," claimed 

my friend!— 
"Red," moaned I. 

The wheel whirled, slowed, stopped. — 

*^Red has lost, 
Black wins,"— jeered my friend; "and your soul 

is the cost!— 
Gold, Fame, Love, Life even, are men's stakes.— 

But mine. 
The spirit immortal, the man-soul divine, 
U (161) 



2lougc ct ttotr. 



By Christ, led to Heaven; by me, to HelFs 
flame !''- 

(Thus, Satan plays friend, in Lifers Eouge et 



Noir game.) 



(163) 



3n tl?e Clubience, 



3n tfje ambience. 



STAR AND SATELLITE. 

X DUAL SOLILOQUY 

Dramatis Personce, 

Leading-Man. 
Matinee- Girl. 

Leading-Man^ (on the stage.) 

Front seat, again? I'd like to play 
Without that girl, one mating. 
Twice weekly, thro' the season's run, 
She's faced me, with her maiden-gun. 
It's loaded with Young Innocence, 
Or I'd retort, in self-defense I— 
Already, I'm the ^Tlayers'" jeer.- 

Matinee-Oirl, {front row, parquet) 
How pleased he looks, to see me here! 

Leading-Man. 
She stares, and stares, and never blinks. 
I'd rather play, to Egypt's Sphinx. 
Confound her smiles. She's off her head!- 
(165) 



star anb Satellite. 



Matinee- Qirl. 
(What sweet ^^aside/' was that, he said?) 

Leading -Maru 
I see a letter, in her eye,— 

Matinke- Oirl 

Hell write to me, or speak, or die. 
It's cruel, not to grant the chance,— 
I've led him such a weary dance. 
I'll drop my programme, on Broadway, 
And let him speak, this very day! 

Leading -Man, 

If she pursues me to the cars, 
I'll cry 'Tolice," by all the stars! 
Domestic peace is risked, I vow;— 
L Ingenue^ s eyes are on her, now! 

Mating- Qirl. 

How haughtily that actress glares! 
She envies me the actors' stares. 
I'm making quite a jealous stir,— 

Leading-Man. 

(O, hang the girl! TheyVe guying her!) 
(166) 



3n ttjc Clubiencc. 



Matinee- Girl. 

The mating is almost done,— 
V\\ pin my Tam-o'-Shanter on- 
Collect my bonbons, programme, glass, — 
The curtain falls. * * * * 

{^^ Please let me^passP^) 

******* 
The stage-door's round the corner. I'll 
Just linger opposite, awhile. * * 
He comes! Now,— 

Leading-Man. 
I'll run home, for life!— 
• »«***«« 

''Well, how's our baby, little wife?" 



Ci87) 



f^ome'Sick. 



HOME-SICK. 

Alas, for the day when I yielded 
The laurels and bays of stage-life, 

For roses in hothouses shielded, 

From all but the millionaire's wife! 



The roses, tho' luscious and fragrant, j 

Sheathe thorns that are sharp in their stings; J 

And vainly I yearn for the vagrant, | 

Wild blossoms of gi^een-room and wings. ] 

1 
The stage, is a world one is born for,— 

A world from all others apart; ; 

And ever, its Esaus must mourn for \ 

Their birthright, with desolate heart;— \ 

And ever. Society's shimmer,— 'j 

The comet that dazzles the Age; j 

Is less ihsLU the foot-lights' least glimmer, I 

In eyes of the child of the stage. ] 

A spark in the actor's soul smoulders, ■] 

That only here, there, attains flame; 

Yet mantles with glory, his shoulders,— \, 

For Grenius divine, is its name. 

(168) I 



3n tfie aubtcttce. 



And where Genius is, it must follow 

What Art is its fate to ally, 
Or pant like the sun-god Apollo, 

Deposed from his throne in the sky. 

So, never an actor has bartered 

Art's service, for gold, or high state, 

But supers the throes of the martyred, 

Wlio knows his cause false, when too late. 

And I, who have spilled the libation 
The gods held my cup, for the mne 

Of Wealth, and its myth. Social Station,— 

Am parched, for the draught that was mine. 

*'My husband r-Olh yes! He is charming,— 
A gentleman, first;— then, a man. 

And Maurice and Maude are disarming 
His hate of their stage-mother's ban,— 

Since, waking from dream of his passion. 
He suffered death-wounds in his pride. 

Because his fair fellows of fashion, 

Held skirts from the actress, his bride. 

IVe lived it down, now; and am lifted 
To-day, to the heights of a class. 

By heritage,— not by worth,— gifted 
With sceptre enslaving the mass 
(169) 



^ome=5tcfc. 



But I, wlio have wielded Art's sceptre, 

That SAvays the grand heart of Mankind, 

Despise Wealth's gold rod, as a spetitre 
Of royaller power, resigned. 

I see the base dross that gold covers,— 
The skeleton, haunting Wealth's feast; 

The shields, that are Blue-Blood's disprovers. 
Betraying the mark of the beast t— 

And know, all too late, that I turned from 
Art's stage, that is noble indeed. 

To tread baser boards I were spurned from, 
If Gold were not god of their greed! 

The choice was my own. I abide it,— 
Because my lord trusts me his name; 

And scandal must never betide it. 

Else his, and Art's, too, were the shame. 

And Maurice and Maude, whom I mother, 
Shall stand forth, in honor to Art, 

And prove that no worse than another, 
An actress plays conjugal part. 

And then, when Life's poor farce is ended, 
And Death drops the curtain, for aye;— 

Perchance, since no fault has offended 
Melpomene, Muse of the play,— « 
(170) 



3n tlje Clubicncc. 



The actress whose role is curtailed, here, 
Shall take up anew, her old part; 

Regaining the shrine she has failed, here,— 
The Stage of her Art, and her heart! 



(171) 



Ct|e Ctjilb at t^ic pla^. 



THE CHILD AT THE PLAY. 

The tlieatre^s charms are many; j 
But sweetest to me, alway, 

Is the dream that lies i 

In the gloAving eyes j 

Of the child, at the mimic play. ■ 

For back in the Youth we love not, : 

Till we mourn o'er its fair young bier,— \ 

Oh! The dream divine, \ 

Of the child, was mine; \ 

And its memory still is dear. i 

The stage was a fairy-kingdom, 

The actors were fairy kings; I 

And they reigned,— ah, me! i 

"With a royalty, i 

That no sceptre, to mortals, brings. | 

The beautiful, gentle ladies, ^ 

Whom they won by their magic arts, A 

Were all fairies, too;— : 

Yet my child-soul knew { 

They were fairies with human hearts! 

(173) • 



3n ttie Clubienc^. 



The child of the modern season, 
Is wise for its years, may be; 

And perchance, the play, 

To the young, to-day, 
Is not all that it was to me. 
Yet never a child is near me. 
Where the magical footlights shine 

But I love to dream 

That the fairies gleam 
In her vision, as once in mine. 

For Life is a disenchanter. 
The World, a prosaic school;— 

And the fairies flee 

From Humanity, 
Ere the glow of Youth's heart, is cool 
And Childhood's ecstatic revel, 
Ei-e the fairies have taken flight, 

Is Life's golden day. 

That is lost for aye, 
In Maturity's dreamless night. 

The spell of the shining Drama, 
That facinates Childhood's eyes 
Exalting its heart, 
To the hero-part, 
And to Love's idealities,— 
Is never the seed of evil, 
(178) 



Ctje <Lk\ib at ttje play. 



B ut of higher and rarer good, 
Than the bigots know, 
Who would shut Art's glow, 

From the Spring-time of flesh and blood. 

For Beauty refines its lover, 
And dreams are the doer's start. 

And, by Fancy fed. 

Is a child's soul led 
To Life's purer and higher part. 
And Age will arise, most surely, 
From the soil of the baser Real, 

That has loved, in youth. 

The diviner Truth, 
Of Art's beautiful, pure Ideal! 

How many a precious talent. 
The shyness of Youth, would slay 

Is revived from death 

By the glowing breath 
Of the footlights that frame the play!— 
O, ever, my heart craves pity 
For the children denied their part,— 

In the beautiful land 

Where the fairies band. 
On the stage of Dramatic Art! 



aw) 



Zn tlje Clubience. 



SUNDERED. 

From eyes to eyes, from lips to lips, 

As first we met, there flashed a smile,— 

The smile of soul to soul, that strips 

From man and woman, Avile and guile; 

Hevealing what our masks debase, — 

Nude Human Nature's noble face! 

From heart to heart. Love's smile flashed, too,- 

As you met me, as I met you. 

We knew it, then; we know it, now; — 
Love's perfect rose, not ours' may be. 
Its thorn alone, is for your brow; 
Its pallid virgin bud, for me. 
You may not pluck, I may not wear, 
The bloom that happy lovers share; 
Yet Love exults, thro' tears of rue, 
That you met me, that I met you. 

Love is its own divinest bliss. 
Transcendent o'er all human things: 
And sight, and sound, and touch, and kiss. 
Are only sweets to which it clings. 



Sunbcreb. 



Loire motfrns their loss, yet still survives, 
To glorify our sundered lives,— 
By Love, and Pain, made pure and true, 
Since you met me, since I met you! 



(176^ 



3n t()e dubtence. 



GRANDMA'S FIRST PLAY. 

Land sakes! But that's elegant playin', 

And all from them fiddlers, down-stairs. 
They beat our church-choir;— (not sayin' 

Our hymn-tunes ain't better'n theirs!) 
I wish now, they'd play ' 'Coronation," 

'^Old Hundred," or ^'Nearer to Thee."— 
A hymn or two'd give reputation 

To this here theayter, for me! 

What's ailin' them fine folks alone, there, 

Set up on them little gilt shelres?— 
^^Their hoxesV Hey? "-Seats of their own^ where 

Rich folks see tK play^ hy themselves T^ 
My stars! Ain' t these grand enough chairs, here,- 

Red velvet, an' tidies, an' all? 
I tell you, it's jest sinful airs, dear. 

Sech pride's sure to lead to a fall! 

Great Caesar! That pictur', there's goin' 
Right up to th' roof of this hall! 

^ A curtain f' Do tell! Now, its sho win' 
A winder as big as a wall. 
(177) 



(Sranbma's ^irst plag. 



I^m sure to see all th^ town thro' it, 

An', like's not, th' green fields, in bloom.— 

Law me! You don't say that's all to it, 
Jest one, single, finicky room? 

''Th' Stage?''- Well, it ts a surprise that 

Th' hired gal dare be so pert; 
Rigg'd up like a doll, makin' eyes at 

Her betters, as tho' they was dirt!— 
She'll smash them fine things with that duster, 

As sure as I've specs on my nose. 
Dear suz! I'm put all in a fluster. 

Th' play-actor's out, I suppose. 

What's all these town-folks sayin '*J3wsA," for? 

/ain't one to w^ear out my lungs. 
Like women I really do blush for,— 

That clacks all day long, with their tongues. 
Hey? What?— ''Shut up, Granny, or toddle f' 

Th' man's never speakin' to me?— 
Away, sir! You're cracked in th' noddle,— 

Adressin' a lady, so free! 

I'll stay till th' play-ac tin's over,— 
(It's dear at a dollar, land knows!) 

An' ^ ^Granny's" no green country-clover, 
Tho' thinkin' no great of town-shows!— 
(178) 



2n tije Clubicnce. 



You're makin' folks mad, with your clatteri 
So; go,— my good man, go away! 

(Sakes! Never a word, with his chatter, 
Can any one hear, of th^ play!) 

Stars! See that play-actor, with none to 

Th' top of her dress, tho^ it trails! 
Some women-folks thinks it's jest fun to 

Shame-face their own sex, afore malesi 
I'm strong-moved to speak up, an' tell her 

Sech fashions is shockin' bad taste! 
A woman jest beats th' Old Feller, 

Who'd come out without any waist!— 

'Tain't decent! I'll throw my shawl at her,- 
(It's old, tho' it don't look much wore!) 
********* 

My patience, police'! what's the matter?— 
" You'll show me right out, by tK door ? " — 

Well, granddaughter'd better be goin', 
I guess, from this temple of sin,— 

Since yonder lost play-actor's showin' 
Th' modestest part of her skin!— 

Land sakes! If she hain't fell to kissin' 
A play-actin' man, plain in sight! 

No wonder these men folks is hissin',— 
Sech actions ain't proper, nor right. 
(179) 



6ranbma's ^Jtrst plafl. 



It must be, weVe blundered in, 

Where Christian folks, never show face, 
Policeman, I thank you, sir, kindly,— 

Show granddaughter out of the place! 



(180) 



3n ttje aubiencc. 



LOVE,— ON, AND OFF, THE STAGE. 

Dramatis Fersonce: 
f:^;;\ On tke stage, 
^^""^^ I Matinee-Girls. 

Lover. 

*^My love, my darling / Life with you^ 

Will he a heaven P^ — 

(How he'll rue 

The day he weds her,— poor old Jim! 

With all my heart I pity him.) 

Lady. 

^^And life with you, will he the real, 
Incarnate dream of Love's ideal/ ^^ — 
(Atrocious man! I'd take my life, 
Before I'd live to be his wife.) 

Maud. 

'^That's love, in play, and earnest, toor 
Jack's taught me how real lovers woo. 
(181) 



£ot)e,— ®n, anh 0ff, tt^c Siaqe. 



Their eyes betray their secret, May; 
You'll know as much, yourself, some day!'* 

May, 
*Tooh! Looks, as well as words, are staged!" 

Maud. 
'*Don*t contradict, child! /'m engaged!" 

Lover. 

*^One JcisSj hehv'd^ to seal your vow, — 
Just one sweet kiss/" — 

(I'd kiss a cow 
With greater pleasure.) 

Lady. 

^^Take one^ dearH 
(Faugh! How he smells of nasty beer.) 

Maud. 

'*See, how her kisses cling to his,— 
Yet he's not half, what my Jack is!"- 

May. 

*' 'Half what? I vow, I'll turn my back, 
Next time you mention that old Jack!' " — 
(183) 



3n tl^e Clubtcnce. 



Maud, {solus.) 

(She's jealous as can be, poor thing, 
Of Jack, and my engagement-ring!) 

Lover. 

"-Tve taken one! Now, give one more/" — 
(Oh! Hang this spooning, it's a bore!) 

Lad2/, 
Bememher, then, this one's the last /" 

Lover. 
(Thank heaven, it is!) 

Lady, 

(So glad it's past!) 

Maud. 

*'Jack always wants just one kiss more: — 
(And /do, too.) Let's cry, " Encore/" 

May, 

"Not I! It makes me sick, to see 
How silly girls in love can be!"— 

{Solus.) 
(My heart's too heavy to applaud!— 
Why can't I be engaged, like Maud?) 
(183) 



Ctj' Kale ©ulb Ztisli play. 



TH' RALE OULD IRISH PLAY. 

Yis, it's a fine, free counthry, 

An' Pat, he's doin' great; 
An' Mary's quite a scholard, — 

Her writin' can't be bate. 
An' Mickey 'U soon be votin'; 

An' shure, th' bye's that vain, 
Th' Prisidint can't shtop him,— 

He'll paint th' counthry grane. 
Th' goold runs in, like wather; 

An' won't th' ould folks dhrown 
Th' fifty pound Pat's sint thim, — 

God bliss this dacint town! 
Which same, laves little wan tin', 

To cheer th' granehorn's shtay,— 
Since, shure, itsilf's imported 

A rale ould Irish Play! 

Lasht night, siz Pat, th' craythur, 

Siz he, ''I'm on a spree, 
In blissid Pathrick's honor, 

On Pathrick's Day," siz he! 

(184) 



3n ttje aubience. 



Siz I, ''That same's shmall cridit!" 

Siz he, ''Whist, now! An' come 
Along wid Mick and Mary, 

To 'Our Ould Irish Home!' " 
"Come home, is it?'' I axes,— 

"It's dhrink that's in yez, Pat!*' 
Siz he, wid wan eye winkin',— 

^at's ^Home ' that's full uv that!' " 
So, grand as lords, we sh tar ted; 

An' shure, Pat led th' way, 
To where thim acthors acted 
A rale ould Irish Play! 

Itsilf comminc'd wid fiddlin' 

"Th' Wearin' uv th' Grane;" 
Thin, *Tathrick's Day" succaded 

Th' jig or two, betwane; 
Which same I'd danced, a girleen, 

(An' Pat, but a gossoon,—) 
So, shure, it's tinder mim'ries 

Me heart bate, to th' tune! 
Me tears fell fast an' faster, 

Till Pat, th' taze,— siz he,— 
*'Ye're dhrownin' Pathrick's shamrock, 

In wather, shamin' me!"— 
Siz I, "It's Holy Wather 

Hearts wape on Pathrick's Day; 
An' sorra shame, to christen 

Th' rale ould Irish Play!" 
(185) 



dtj' Hale ®ulb Zvisli play. 



Begorra! But it sh tar tied 

Me sowl, wid shwate surprise, 
To see an Irish cabin 

Forninst me own two eyes. — 
Th' bye wid his shillelah, 

Th' purty colleen hawn ; 
His Rivirince,— God save him! 

Th' darlint cruisheen lawn; 
Th' childer, by th' roadside, 

Th' ould folks, by th' hearth; 
Th' pratees in th' ashes,— 

(Th' shwatest faste on 'artht)— 
All's afther immigratin' 

Acrost th' rollin' say,— 
Wid that same pride to Ireland, 

Th' rale ould Irish Play. 

Shure, it's th' Irish, blesses 

Both play, an' acthors, too; 
For it's th' dear Ould Counthry 

We're missin', in th' New. 
An' whin th' hearts uv granehorns 

Th' home-sickness, near breaks, 
O, sorra good is dollars, 

Aginst th' brists that aches. 
Ochone! Since goold's cowld comfort. 

An' pride makes its own fall, — 
It's only love that shwatens 

Th' wurrld, at all, at all! 
(186) 



3n tt^c aubicnce. 



An' whin tli' exile's heart-sore, 
For thim acrost th' say,— 

Th' nearest thing to Ireland's 
Th' rale oiild Irish Play! 

It^s fine here, for th' Irish! 

They're gettin' rich, and great,— 
God bless th' honest counthry, 

That's sot thim on their fate! 
An* proud I am, to say it,— 

Wid all their grand success, 
It's few uv thim, gits haughty, 

Or shpoiled wid heartlessness! 
New-counthry w^ays an' doin's, 

An' Quality's fine shtyle's 
All well enough, if only, 

We kape our hearts, manewhiles! 
Wliich same we're afther doin', 

At prisint, annyway,— 
Since it's th' Irish welcome, 

We give th' Irish Play! 

An' so, I say it over,— 

This counthry's fine for Pat; 
An' Mary's quite a scholard, 

An' purty-faced, at that. 
(187) 



tLk' Hale ®ulb 3rt5tj plag. 



An' Mickey'U soon be votin', 

An' thinks hiinsilf is sint 
To save th' Yankee's counthry, 

An' be nixt Prisidint! 
Th' goold runs in, like wather, 

In tliis same dacint town, — 
An' fifty pound's th' shamrock 

Pat's sint thim home, to dhrown!- 
Which same's th' Irish fashion, 

Both sides th' salty say,— 
So,— "here's "—(more power to it!)— 

" Til' Bale Quid Irish Play T 



(188) 



3n tlje aubten«. 



TWO OF A KIND. 

Hey {in front row^ solus.) 

(How jolly it is, to slip off for a night, 
And lark it again, with the boys! 

The good little woman at home, is all right; 
But I'm for a bachelor's joys.) 

She^ {in a box.) 

"Now, Jack, dear, remember; no tales out of 
school! 

My husband would wager his life, 
I'm moping at home, like the dull little fool, 

Mistitled, a dutiful wife.'' 

Ee. 

(The dickens! Jack Lawless, my wife's old beau, 
here?) 
I'm doomed to the conjugal stocks.— 
Hold on, though! Here's luck! I have nothing 
to fear). 
Jack's own little game's in that box!) 
(189) 



CtDO of a Kinb. 



She, 

*'I'll risk just one peep at the bald-headed row;— 
Old sinners! All married, of course. 

That halht-^irV^ flirting with one just below! 
I hope his wife gets a divorce.*' 

He. 

(Some dupe of a husband's at work like a snail, 
While Jack shares the wife's little spree; 

For ^^Married," is written all over her veil!— 
It's well she's not married to me.) 

She, 

*^What fun, Jack, to finish our escapade up, 
At Del's, with a reed-bird, and wine!" 

He. 

(That dancer's a beauty, I'll treat her to sup'! 
A rarebit and beer's in her line.) 

She. 

"Now, what shall I say, if my husband's in, first? 
O yes! That I've been out with brother." 

He. 

(My wife's deuced sharp, since the business- 
dodge burst!— 
I'll tell her, I went to see mother.) 
(190) 



3rt tt^e Clubience. 



She. 

"It's over! Delay in the lobby, and glance 
That bald-headed flirt in the face.'' 

Re, 

(My dancer's make-up, just affords me a chance 
To see whom Jack's tempted from grace.) 

She. 
"My husband? O heavens! I'll fib for dear life !" 

He. 

{My wifel Accusation's my cue!) 

******* 

"Strange^ Madam^ that here^ I should follow my wife — " 

She. 
"Too strange^ — since your wife followed youl^^ 



(191) 



Clie Stora of Sarg. 



THE STORY OF SARY. 

Yes, Sary Ann, she's my daughter, tho* Pa never 

speaks her name. 
Th' play-actin' fever caught her, an' brought all 

her folks, to shame. 
She married, (for love, that's certain;) th' play- 

actin' city-snip. 
Who dropp'd th' thea2/ter-curtain, th' day I 

made Sary skip. 
* 'You 're achin' to hear her story?"— Say, stran- 
ger, set down a spell! 
It ain't to poor Sary's glory,— I'm meaner'n 

snakes, to tell. 
But, laws! I hain't talked it over, for many a 

long, long day; 
An' cow never loved th' clover, as I love to say 

my say! 

Well, Sary was young, an' frisky; an' pretty as 

gal kin be.— 
(It riled her Pa, wuss'n whiskey, to hear how 

she favor 'd me. 

(192) 



3n tf|c Clubience. 



Th' Steggins has hum'ly features, while mine is 

a han'some race;— 
But, lordy! You vain men-creatures smirks 

over a scare-crow face!)— 
She warn' t any hand for workin^; an* balk'd 

like a yearlin' mule, 
Till Pa, like a green old gherkin, gev' in to a 

boardin'-schule . 
I warn'd him, she'd come to ruin; but she'd 

sorter riz his pride ; 
An' Pa, onct he sets to doin', ain't easy to turn 

aside! 

She cost us two year o' schoolin'; an' when she 

was looked for, back, 
She writ, how ^'/She warnH for fooliin! rourC any old 

country -track ! 
Her 'play-actin! got seek praises^ she^d settled to try tK 

stage." — 
(Poor Pa, he jest cuss'd like blazes, a-readin' of 

that there page!) 
^^ She wanted to work, not idle; an* actin' was her 

ideeV 
(In fact, she'd jest slipp'd th' bridle, an' back'd 

on th' old main-wheel.) 
^^And Ma musing be down-hearted, nor Pa, in a 

wicked rage, 
To hear^ that — 7iext day — she started — a play -actress 
— on — tN stage/ " 

(193) 



Ct^e Stora of Sarg. 



Now, Pa, as a Baptist deacon, counts play- 

actin*, shame, an' sin; 
An' blaz'd like a red-hot beacon, ag'inst his own 

female kin. 
I sez, when he'd finished swearin',— sez I, *Ta, 

I told you so!"— 
He answer'd unfit for hearin', an' started out- 
side, to mow. 
Thinks I, <^ Here's a tale for tellin'!"— So 

dress 'd in my Sabbath-best, 
An' cross'd to th' parson's; sweliin' with tears 

down inside my breast. 
Sez he, '^Sister, vain is sorrow; so, be as the sar- 

pint, wise.— 
If Sary Ann plays to-morrow, go see her, with 

your own eyes!" 

I hadn't a thought o' goin'; but soon as them 

words was said, 
I know'd that th' wind was blowin' for town, if 

it killed me dead. 
Pa quacked like a cross old gander; an' called it 

a ''Goose's chase ; " 
Which riz up my woman-dander, to sass him 

afore his face!— 

(194) 



3n tt^e Clubience. 



Th' parson's wife's old-maid sister, she lives 

where th' cars gits in; 
I jingled her bell, an' kiss'd her, as townfied as 

any thin'.— 
She sent for th' mornin'-papers, that told about 

Sary's play;— 
An', after all Sary's capers, they praised up a 

Matty Nay! 

Now, Liza Jane bein' kin to th' parson's own 

married wife, 
She reckon'd 'twould be a sin to backslide, (at 

her time o' life,) 
An' visit a real theayter; so poor Liza Jane 

forbore,— 
An' didnH it aggravate her, to leave me outside 

th' door!- 
I foUer'd a man inside it, an' started to find my 

purse. 
(I'd thought of a place to hide it, an' fool th' hull 

universe : — 
My pocket was hand-sew 'd under two petticoats, 

hoop, and dress. 
Town pick-pockets go to thunder! This here's 

no spring-lamb, I guess!— 
(196) 



Clje Storg of Sarfl. 



A man at a little winder cut inter th' wall, 

kerslam!— 
Sez he, "Stand aside! You hinder th' people 

behind, Msidam f — 
Sez I, **Do your cussin*, later; an* giv' Sary 

Ann's own Ma, 
A pass for this here theayter, or me an' you'll 

hev a jar!" 
I tell you. that made him civil I He blushed up 

like currant- jam, 
An' sez, with a sickly snivil, "Best seats are a 

dollar, ma'am!" 
(I'd handed a quarter, knowin' that Sary Ann 

liked her fill,— 
But, law me! Wealth must be snowin', where 

she's wuth a dollar-bill!) 

He throws me a slip o' paper, an' sez, "Pass 

along ! Next there ! ' ' 
Sez I, "Don't you try no caper! I've boughten 

your best front chair!"— 
He laff'd in my face; cuss'd "Bother!" An' 

calls to a big perlice, 
**Say, Pat! Sary Aim's own mother ain't freezin' 

for lack o' fleece!" 
(196) 



3n i^e Ctubience. 



Sez I, "I'm a hen, for figlitin'! Hand over my 
dollar-chair!" 

Sez that there perlice, politin' like this, with 
his hand,— '^ In there! 

Ye pass thro^ th' little wicket, an' shure, your 
sate's right in view."— 

Next thing, a man grabb'd my ticket, an' flit- 
ter 'd it spank in two! 

I up with my best umbreller, an' hit him a good 

smart smack I 
Sez I, ^^You darned mean old feller, you give 

that there ticket back!"— 
He laff^d so, he nearly died, there; an' handed 

half, back to me! 
*^Giv' this to th' man inside, there! He'll show 

you your box /" sez he. 
Not bein' above obeyin', like greenies that know 

it all,— 
I shoved in a front-door, swayin' right inter a 

lit-up hall. 
A chap slips up, sweet as candy; sez he^ 

^^Check?" Sez I, '^You skit! 
If my dollar-chair ain't handy, I'll tell Sary 

Abb of it!" 

(mi 



Ctie Storg of Sarg. 



He grinn'd like a sliow-hyeny. Sez he, ''An' 

who's Siiry Ann?" 
Sez I, ''You poor city-greeny, come down for 

some country-tan!" 
He winks at me, with a snicker; an sez, * 'You're 

a daisy, Ma! 
If Sary Ann's any slicker, I'm comin' to smirk 

round Pa!" 
With that, he scoots down a slantin', as steep as 

a coast down-hill. 
Jest stoppin' his gallivantin', to hand me a 

circus-bill. 
Then, what does he do, but smashes a piece right 

down off a chair,— 
An' 'titters, "Mind, now, no mashes with them 

nice musicians, there!" 

I set down as soft as butter, expectin' to sink 

clean thro',— 
An' put in a nari^ous flutter, to see that chair 

bruk in two. 
A man, whose hair wanted snippin', th* wust 

that I ever see, 
Turn'd back-to, an' set to flippin' a cane-stick, 

in front o' me! 

(196^ 



3n t1:\e Clubtcnce. 



Then, all them there fiddlers tooted right inter 

my face.— ^^AtchouT 
I sneezed till th' front ones scooted thro' two 

cellar-doors, bet you!— 
The hall was jest packed with wimmin, rigg'd up 

to th' nines. Great Star! 
Sech velvets, an' silks, an' trimmin'!— They'd 

oughter hev married Pa! 

I smiled round as smooth as custard, for Sary 
Ann's pretty face. 

Then riled up as mad as mustard, lest Liza'd 
mistook th' place; 

When up roU'd th' biggest curtain, I ever did 
live to see, 

An' show'd sech a tree, as certain, don't no- 
wheres grow natur'ly! 

A feller asleep, jest under,— (him Sary Ann's 
married, sence,) 

Woke up, as cross-grained as thunder, an' near- 
ly tore down the fence, 

In sarch o' some shameful wimmin he'd dreamt 
of, in broad daylight, 

All ready to go in swimmin', or sech-like dis- 
graceful sight! 

(IW) 



Clje Storg of Sarg. 



Next minute,— good land o' clover! A dudey 

chap tip-toed in, 
An' told him to sleep all over, an' mebbe he'd 

dream agin. 
So, right there, afore our faces, he started 

another nap; 
Wliile t'other one perks and paces, an' smirks 

round, as soft as sap. 
Th' lights, then, all blow'd out suddin; as all 

to onct, thick as sheep, 
A lot of queer shapes came scuddin' to that 

there man, fast asleep. 
I put on my strongest glasses, to make out their 

features clear; 
Which warn't nuther lads' nor lasses', of pat- 
terns we raise, down here. 

Tlieir figgers was jest a-bustin', like puddin's 
tied up too tight.— 

I never see sech disgustin', redik'lous, unchris- 
tian sight! 

Jest one, hed a skirt onto it, made out o' some 
fringe, an' stuff; 

But, mercy! You seen plump thro' it. 'Twam't 
anywhere's thick enough. 



3n tl|e Ctubtettce. 



I sez to myself, ''Them jiggers is waxwork, an' 

goes like clocks!" 
"When back, way behind th' figgers, a moon riz 

above some rocks. 
It waltzed up that sky, th' spry est, an' brighest, 

I ever see,— 
An' jest where its light shun highest, stood 

Sary Ann, facing me. 

Yes, sir! With them skin-tight leggin's, an' jest 

that doll-skirt, on top, 
Stood Sary Ann 'Manda Steggins^ my daughter, 

as sure as pop! 
She didn't look none too happy, a-standin' there 

all unthatched,— 
But flustered, an' sort o' gappy; like chickens 

when they're first hatched. 
I didn't take time to snuflfle, but jest riz up, 

there, and then; 
An' sez, ''Sary Ann, you scuffle right out o' th' 

sight o' men!" 
She started; then, stood there, shaking pur- 

tendin' 'twarn't her, I meant; 
But I was riled up, an' achin' to tackle th' 

President! 



(Et^c Stora of Sary. 



I straddled th' rail dividin' them music-men 

from th' hall;— 
(They stared, when they seen me stridin' right 

over th' drums, an' all.) 
An empty chair stood all ready, behind th' last 

fiddle-man;— 
I stepped on it, firm an* steady, an' mounted to 

Sary Ann. 
Her face was a show, from paintin'; snow-white, 

where it warn't blood-red. 
She teeter 'd like one most faintin', an' hung 

down her shame-faced head.— 
(Poor Sary warn't never sandy, but scary and 

short o' breath.) 
I clutched her, th' first place handy, an' shook 

her almost to death! 

Sez I, "You poor stark play-actor, I'll cover 

your skin for youl" 
An' then I set to, an' black'd her, wherever she 

wasn't blue. 
Th' hall riz, and yell'd; perlices come ram- 

pagin' down th' hill,— 
Th' play-actin' went to pieces, an' some of 'em 

held me still. 



3n ti^e Clubtcnce. 



I rear'd like a new-broke filly, an^ scratched 

like a Thomas cat; 
An^ knocked all them actors silly,--an' likewise 

my bunnit, flat! 
Till Sary Ann turned high-streaky, an' screeched 

nigh acrost th' town; 
An' him she^s wed, since, got cheeky, an' sez, 

'^Ring that curtain down!" 

That's all! Sary Ann was nettled; an' quitted 

th' stage, for home. 
But, poor child, she never settled;— an 'one night 

a letter come, 
An' only a few days later, she 'loped with her 

beau, and writ 
How *' Pa avb Ma mustnH hate her^ for makin^ a 

match it. 
She'd f oiler' d her heart an' mated /" Yes sir; with 

that actor-chap, 
In spite of his dissipated, unlawful, immodest 

nap. 
An' Pa got his feelin's hurted: an' /don't know 

where they be. 
So— poor Sary Ann's deserted, by— even her Pa, 

—an' me!— 

(20^ 



Ctje Storg of Sarg. 



Say, friend, now I set to thinkin', that play- 
actor favor'd you! 

You've got jest his trick o' blinkin', with eyes 
that a laugh shines thro'. 

His hair was about your color, an'— Mercy! 
What ails th' man? 

Jerusha! I bet a dollar, you're husband to 
Sary Ann ! 

You be?— *^An' she's got a baby^ an's wantin' 
her own dear Ma ?"— 

You pesterin', jjert young gaby! Why didn't 
you say so?— Pa!— 

O Pa! Hitch right up th' waggin! Here's son- 
in-law, plain in view, — 

An' Sary Ann's been a-taggin' a grandson on 
me an' you! 



(m 



(Epilogue. 



(Epilogue. 



I'LL MEET YOU TO-NIGHT, BOYS. 

"Ill meet you to-night, boys, after the play!^'— 

Says the actor, going his nightly way 

To the dressing-room, and the shining stage, 

And the Public's heart, that is Art's sweet wage.— 

As the curtain falls on his mimic r^fe, 

Oh! His words are haunting my woman-soul; 

And I wish the angels would hush, for aye, 

"I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!*' 

"ril meet you to-night, boys, after the play!' - 
So the actor goes on his midnight way, 
With the thoughtless glee of a boy, in truth; 
For the man is always, at heart, a youth. 
And the artist, more than the common man, 
Keeps his youthful heart, as immortals can. 
And the gold-head's word, is the same, when 

gray,- 
"I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!" 

"I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!"— 
Oh! The ends Divine, that the light words slay; 
And the brilliant lives, that they blight at start, 
And the Genius, that is lost to Art: 



3'U meet Hou (Eo^Higi^t, Boas. 



Aiid the happy homes, that are razed to earth; 
And the faithful loves, that are doomed to dearth; 
Aiid the graves that open; as mad men say,— 
*^IH meet you to-night, boys, after the play!'* 

**IH meet you to-night, boys, after the play!'* 
And we women shudder, and weep, and pray, 
As "we watch till dawn, by the window's gloom, 
For the reckless sowers of Death, and Doom. 
But we weep, and shudder, and pray in vain, 
For the man makes light of the woman's pain; 
And a kiss atones; tho' his lips still say, ~ 
**I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!'* 

**I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!" 

So, till stars are lost in the sun's first ray, 

It is wine, and laughter, and cigarettes; 

And the cards, and winnings; or chips, and debts. 

And a banquet, here, and carousal, there; 

With an after-slip into Circe's snare. 

For the ^'pace that kills," is begmi this way,— 

^'I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!" 

*'I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!" 
And the night is sweet : but the after-day 
Has the bitter taste of the wine-cup's lees. 
And Man's soul revolts, from the fumes of these. 



(Epilogue. 



But the dusk brings tempters, both old, and new; 
And *'a treat" is owed, or "a game'- is due:— 
So, the same old words, in the same old way,— 
*'I11 meet you to-night, boys, after the play!'' 

*'I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the playl"-- 
Till there comes a night, when he bides away. 
But the wine, and game, have no time to miss 
Just a man they've cheated of Life's best bliss! 
So he lives, or dies, as his fate may be; 
And 'Hhe boys," perchance, pass a ' Where is heT 
Ere they fill his place, who no more can say, 
*'I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!" 

**I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!"— 
O immortal men! Does the promise pay? 
Ye of lofty souls, ye of brilliant brain, 
Ye of tender hearts, count the loss and gain! 
Are the brief nights Tvorthy the whole life's 

cost?— 
Health, and Wealth, and Home, Life, and 

Heaven lost. 
For the pleasures luring your lips to say— 
*'I'll meet you to-night, boys, after the play!" 



CI^c actor's Benefit. 



THE ACTOR'S BENEFIT. 

The lights from the dome, are blazing 

On Fashion's brilliant show. 
The gallery's ^^mass" is gazing 

On social ^^Class," below. I 

The boxes are thrones of Beauty, | 

(Not chary of display;) 

The swells are on escort-duty, < 

Society's in sway.— j 

An overture from the brasses: \ 

A classic Opera \ 

Adored by the '^ Fagner "-classes, i 

Whose souls a tune would jar;— i 

Then, dancers; and "Living Pictures/' 1 

Whose sullied beauty, haunts; 1 

A Drama defying strictures; j 

And speeches no one wants.— \ 
The * 'March" of the grsmd finale, 

(From which the " Fagners" flit,) 

Announces the curtain.— ** Fafe'^ \ 

To the Actor's Benefit! ! 

(21Q) \ 



Epilogue. 



The feast has been long, and merry; 

The f easters go, in glee : 
But ah, for the ghost they bury, 

Whose face is haunting me! 
The actor whose name is heading 

The posters, bills, and all,— 
Behind the bright scenes, is shedding 

Such tears as hearts let fall. 
Perchance he is old, and lonely ; 

Perchance, both young and proud I 
A popular star; or only 

A struggler in Art's crowd. 
An accident or prostration 

Has crossed him from the race; 
He sights, in his tribulation, 

Necessity's gaunt face. 
The blight of its ghastly presence,— 

O, mourn the pain of it! 
Coerces his acquiescence 
; To the Actor's Benefit. 

Alas, for the kindly actors 

Who heed their brother's call! 

For stealthy and fatal factors 
Are leagued against them all. 

The work of the Stage is wearing; 

F Its play, is even worse: 

[ And many a hand is sharing 
Bohemia's lax purse* 



Ct^c actor's benefit. : 

I 



Deluded by Fame's brief power, 

And fickle sovereignty, 
Art lives for the present hour,— 

Forgetting years to be, 
TiU faced by the Shylock-fo^nan 

The thriftless meet at last,— 
Then, woe to the man and woman 

Whose youth and strength are past! 
They wake from Art's fair illusion, 

To curse the cost of it. 
Whenever Fame's sad conclusion 

Is the Actor's Benefit! 



(S12) 



€ptIogue. 



AFTER THE PLAY. 

When the curtain falls on the evening's play, 
And the crowd is gone on its homeward way, 
And the stage is dark, and the great house still. 
And the greenroom emptied of good and ill,— 
What of them we loved in the Drama's rdles,- 
Of the men and women, who swayed our souls? 
Go the players, too, on their homeward way, 
After the play? 

Ah! The truth is dual;— both yes, and no! 
To their homes, the few, not the many, go: 
For the Club, the sons of the stage, belates; 
And the midnight '^supper,'' its daughters, waits. 
So the men, to grill, and to billiard-rooms, 
Or to gilded bars, where they drain their dooms. 
And the rest, to revels that last till day. 
After the play! 

When the curtain falls, and the play is done, 
Then the actor's pleasures are just begun; 
For the footlights spoil him for garish noon, 
And he loves the midnight, and lofty moon. 



Q:{^c actor's Benefit. 



With the stage's glow in his shining eyes, 
And his soul enthralled by Art's sorceries, 
Both as man and artist he must have sway, 
After the play. 

Naught are laws of Fashion and Form to him 
For the footlights flash on the social rim; 
And tho' men look askance, and women mourn, 
He must drain the cup of the artist-born. 
So Convention's follies, that fritter life. 
And the mask of Sham, with its social strife. 
And the cant of bigots, he flings away. 
After the play. 

As a standard unto himself, is he; 

For the artist-soul, must, and will, be free. 

And his blood exults, and his flesh is rife, 

And his heart is thrilled, with the bliss of Life. 

So the Wine, and Passion, and Song of Night, 

Lure him here and there, till the stars take 

flight.- 
For the actor, then, by your bedsides, pray. 
After the play! 

Foi* the fiends, like Death, love a shining mark; 
And the actor's followed along the dark. 
By the subtlest tempters that man can meet. 
And their lures are many, and fair, and sweet. 
(214) 



epilogue. 



And as harp vibrates to the wind's least sigh, 
So, the artist's stirred by both low and high 
Of the spirits, haunting his tense soul's way, 
After the play. 

Yet, if evil's in him, leave God to judge, 
By the grace of good, that the saints might grudge. 
For to Heaven, rings his immortal fame. 
As the poor and prodigal, bless his name. 
As he gives the man, with a kindly smile, 
So, he scorns no woman, however vile.— 
Oh! The angel Charity shrives his way, 
After the play! 

Then defame him not, with the small-soul'd mass, 
Whose prosaic footsteps, Art's pinions pass: 
For men's beaten tracks, were not made for him. 
Nor the narrow creeds of the dull and prim. 
As the singing lark soars aloft and far, 
So, the actor vaults social ban and bar,— 
Unto Heaven, too; it shall prove, some day, 
After Life's play! 



(815) 



Cn (2pttaplj. 



AN EPITAPH. 

Of him in life, who now is dead, 
'Tanatic! Bigot! Fool!" we said. 
Because he sought the far Ideal, 
While we were following the Real. 

By creeds divine, that wise men mock, 
His simple soul stood like a rock; 
And Duty's stress, and Virtue's strife, 
With Art's pure service, shared his life. 

The ways of Sin, that base men love, 
He passed, unsullied as a dove; 
Revering, in his child-like heart. 
His Manhood holy as his Art. 

He trampled Self's seductive flame. 
And man's and artist's name and fame, 
Devoted to the common good 
Of struggling human brotherhood. 



Art's golden gains, he scorned to save; 

^1 



No haunting hoard disturbs his grave, ^ 



Wherein, behold his crowTiing grace,— 
He sleeps with smile upon his face! 
(216) 



€pUogue. 



"Fanatic! Bigot! Tool!" We said, 
Of thee in life, O smiling dead! 
In death, we know thee as thou art,- 
Man, artist, after God's own heart. 



THE END. 



(217) 



